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I saw Mrs Bertha Neckin standing at the sink. She glanced up and I waved to her, but she didn't respond.

I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and went swiftly into Tippi Kipper's dressing room. I set down my briefcase and began searching. It wasn't hard to find: a cedar-smelling box of filigreed wood with brass corners. It appeared to be of Indian handicraft. It was tucked under a stack of filmy lingerie in a bottom dresser drawer. I may have blushed when I handled those gossamer garments.

The box was unlocked and filled with a carelessly tossed pile of notes. There were jottings on his personal stationery, on sheets from notepads, on raggedly torn scrap paper, and one on a personal cheque of Solomon A.

Kipper, made out to Tippi Kipper in the amount of 'Ten zillion dollars and all my love' and signed 'Your Sol.'

I scanned the notes quickly. My heart cringed. Most were love letters from an old man obviously obsessed to the point of dementia by a much younger woman whose seductive skills those notes spelled out in explicit detail.

And there were notes of apology.

'I am sorry, babe, if I upset you.' Wasn't so bad for starters, but then I came across 'Please forgive me for the way I acted last night. I realize you had a headache, but I couldn't help myself, you looked so beautiful.' As I read on, a pattern of increasing desperation, dependence, and humiliation emerged.

'Can you ever forgive me?' Then, 'Here is a little something for you to make up for what I said last night. Am I forgiven?'

It was punishment, reading those revelations of a dead man. I stole two of them:

'Tippi, I hope you will pardon me for the pain I caused you.' And, 'My loving wife, please forgive me for all the trouble I made. I promise you that you'll never again have any reason to doubt my everlasting love for you.'

Those two, I thought, would serve as suicide notes as well as the one found prominently displayed in the master bedroom after Sol Kipper's plunge.

I tucked the two notes into my briefcase, closed and replaced the box, and then went up the rear staircase to the sixth floor. I entered the party room, went over and stood with my back against the locked French doors leading to the terrace.

I looked at my watch. I allowed fifteen seconds for the act of throwing Kipper over the wall. Then I started running. I went down the rear staircase as fast as I could. I dashed along the fifth-floor corridor to the main staircase. I went bounding down rapidly, swinging wildly around the turns. I came down to the entrance hall, rushed over to the front door. I looked at my watch, gasping. About ninety seconds. He could have made it. Easily.

There was no one about, and no sounds from the sitting room. I found my outer garments and donned them and went out into the chill rain without saying goodbye to Chester. I walked towards Fifth Avenue, intending to catch a cab. I was almost there when who should fall into step alongside but the Reverend Godfrey Knurr.

'Joshua!' he said, moving under the shelter of my umbrella. 'This is nice. Chester told us you were about. If you say this is good weather for ducks, I may kick you!'

He was bright again, his manner jaunty.

I didn't panic. I knew he had been waiting for me, but in a way I couldn't understand, I welcomed the confrontation. Maybe I thought of it as a challenge.

'Pastor,' I said, 'good to see you again. I didn't want to interrupt you and Mrs Kipper.'

He rolled his eyes in burlesque dismay.

'What an argument that was,' he said carefully, taking my arm. 'Want to hear about it?'

'Sure.'

He looked about.

'Around the corner,' he said. 'Down a block or so. Posh 353

hotel. Nice cocktail lounge. Quiet. We can talk — and keep dry. On the outside at least.'

A few minutes later we were standing at the black vinyl, padded bar in the cozy lounge of the Stanhope, the room dimmed by rain-streaked windows in which the Metropolitan Museum shimmered like a Monet. We were the only customers, and the place was infused with that secret ambience of a Manhattan bar on a rainy day, comfortably closed and begging for quiet confessions.

Knurr ordered a dry Beefeater martini up, with lemon peel. I asked for a bottle of domestic beer. When our drinks were served, he glanced around the empty room.

'Let's take a table,' he said.

He picked up his drink and led the way to a small table in a far corner. I followed with my bottle of beer and a glass.

That was the difference between us: I would have asked the bartender, 'Is it all right if we take a table?'

I must admit it was more comfortable sitting in the soft chairs, walls at our backs. We sat at right angles to each other, but we turned slightly so we were facing each other more casually.

Knurr rattled on for a while, gabbing mostly about inconsequential things like the weather, a cold he was trying to shake, how every year at this time he began to yearn for warmer climes, a hot sun, a sandy beach, etc.

I looked into his eyes as he spoke. I nodded occasionally. Smiled. It was the oddest feeling in the world — sitting drinking, exchanging idle talk, with a murderer.

How had I thought a killer would be different — disfigured with a mark perhaps? That would be too easy.

As it was, I had to keep reminding myself of who Knurr was and what he had done. But all I was conscious of was the normality of our conversation, its banality. 'A miserable day.' 'Oh yes, but they say it may clear tonight.'

Finally he stopped chattering. He put both elbows on the 354

table, scrubbed his face with his palms. He sighed and looked off into the emptiness of the room.

!I counsel a great many people, ' he said, talking to the air. 'As I told you, mostly women. Occasionally they come to feel that my interest in them is not purely in their immortal souls. They assume I have, uh, a more personal interest. You understand?'

'Of course,' I said. 'It must lead to difficulties.'

'It does indeed,' he said, sighing. 'All kinds of difficulties. For instance, they demand more of my time than I am willing to give, or can give, for that matter.'

I made sympathetic noises.

'Would you believe,' he went on, 'that some of my — well, I was about to say patrons, but not all of them are that. For want of a better word, let's call them clients.'

'How about dependants?' I suggested.

He looked at me sharply to see if I was being sarcastic. I was not. He punched my upper arm lightly.

' Very good, Joshua,' he said. 'Dependants. I like that.

Much better than clients. Well, as I was saying, occasionally some of my dependants become jealous of others, believing I am devoting too much time to them. I don't mean to imply selfishness on their part, but I have found that most unhappy people, women and men, are inclined to be self-centred, and when sympathetic interest is expressed, they want more and more. Sympathy becomes an addiction, and they resent it when others share. That's what my disagreement with Mrs Kipper was about. I am currently counselling other women, of course, and she felt I was not devoting enough time to her and her problems.'

It wasn't a clumsy lie, but it seemed to me unnecessarily complex. There was no need for him to explain at all. But having started, he should have kept it simple.

I looked at him as he signalled the bartender for another round of drinks. He did have an imperious way about him, lifting a hand and gesturing curtly.

'How is your social club coming along?' I asked.

'What?' he said vaguely. 'Oh, fine, fine. The barkeep put a shade too much vermouth in that last martini. I hope this one will be drier.'

The bartender himself brought the drinks over to our table but did not hover. Knurr sipped eagerly.

' Much better,' he smiled with satisfaction, relaxing and sliding down a bit in his chair. 'Dry as dust.'

He was certainly a craggily handsome man, brooding and intense. I could understand why women were attracted to him; he radiated vigour and surety. The slightly bent nose and steady brown eyes gave the appearance of what is known as 'a man's man.' But the slaty beard framed rosy, almost tender lips that hinted of a soft vulnerability.