"Sounds good to me," Boone said.
"Thank you, sir. But I'll have to check with Rebecca first in case she's made other plans."
"Sure. Either way, why don't you ask her to give Monica a call."
Ronald J. Bellsey lived in a new high-rise on the corner of Third Avenue. They found a parking space on 29th Street and walked back through the windswept rain, holding on to their hats. They were then told by the lobby attendant that Mr. and Mrs. Bellsey were not at home, having gone shopping no more than fifteen minutes earlier.
"Shit," the Sergeant said as they plodded back to the car.
"Well, I guess we can't expect to win them all."
"We'll try him again this afternoon," Delaney said.
"No one's going to spend all day shopping in this weather. Let's give L.
Vincent Symington a go. He lives in Murray Hill; Thirty-eighth Street east of Park. Did you get any skinny on him?"
"He's a bachelor. Works for an investment counseling outfit on Wall Street.
On the night of the murder, he says he was at a big dinner-dance at the Hilton. Some of the other guests remember seeing him there, but it was such a mob scene, he could easily have ducked out, murdered Ellerbee, and gotten back to the Hilton without anyone noticing he was gone. it's never neat and tidy-is it, sir?"
"Never," Delaney said.
"Always loose ends. You know what they call them in the navy?
Irish pennants. that's what this case is-all Irish pennants."
Symington lived in an elegant townhouse with bay windows on the first two floors, fanlights over the upper windows, and a mansard roof of greened copper. A lantern of what appeared to be Tiffany glass hung suspended over the front door.
"Money," Delaney pronounced, surveying the building.
"Probably all floor-throughs."
He was right; there were only five names listed on the gleaming brass bell plate. L. VINCENT SYMINGTON, printed in a chaste script, was opposite the numeral 3. Boone pressed the button and leaned down to the intercom grille.
"Who is it?" a fluty voice asked.
"Sergeant Abner Boone, New York Police Department. Is this Mr.
Symington?"
"Yes.
"Could we speak to you for a few minutes, sir?"
"What precinct are you from?"
"Manhattan North."
"Just a minute, please."
"Cautious bastard," Boone whispered to Delaney.
"He's calling the precinct to see if I exist."
Delaney shrugged.
"He's entitled."
They waited almost three minutes before the buzzer sounded. They pushed inside and climbed the carpeted stairs.
The man waiting for them on the third-floor landing might have been wary enough to check with Manhattan North, but he nullified that prudence by failing to ask for their ID.
"I suppose this is about Dr. Ellerbee." he said nervously, retreating to his doorway.
"I've already talked to the police about that."
"Yes, sir, we know," the Sergeant said.
"But there are some additional questions we wanted to ask."
Symington sighed.
"Oh, very well," he said petulantly.
"I hope this will be the end of it."
"That," Boone said, "I can't guarantee."
The apartment was meticulously decorated and looked, Delaney thought, about as warm and lived-in as a model room in a department store.
Everything was just so: color coordinated, dusted, polished, shining with newness. No butts in the porcelain ashtrays. No stains on the velvet upholstery.
No signs of human habitation anywhere.
"Beautiful room," he said to Symington.
"Do you really think so? Thank you so much. You know, everyone thinks I had a decorator, but I did it myself. I can't tell you how long it took.
I knew exactly what I wanted, but it was ages before it all came together."
"You did a great job," Boone assured him.
"By the way, I'm Sergeant Boone, and this is Edward Delaney."
"Pleased, I'm sure," Symington said.
"Forgive me for not shaking hands. I'm afraid I've got a thing about that."
He took their damp hats and coats, handling them with fingertips as if they might be infected. He motioned them to director's chairs: blond cowhide on stainless-steel frames. He stood lounging against an antique brick fireplace with a mantel of distressed oak.
He was wearing a jumpsuit of cherry velour that did nothing to conceal his paunch. A gold medallion hung on his chest, and a loose bracelet of chunky gold links flopped on his wrist when he gestured. His feet were bare.
"Well," he said with a trill of empty laughter, "I suppose you know all about me."
"Beg pardon, sir?" Boone said, puzzled.
"I mean, I suppose you've been digging into Doctor Simon's files, and you know all my dirty little secrets."
"Oh, no, Mr. Symington," Delaney said.
"Nothing like that. We have the names and addresses of patients-and that's about it."
"That's hard to believe. I'm sure you have ways… Well, I have nothing to hide, I assure you. I've been seeing Doctor Simon for six years, three times a week. If it hadn't been for him, I'm sure I would have been a raving maniac by now.
When I heard of his death, I was devastated. Just devastated."
And, Delaney recalled, the lobby attendant at Sylvia Mae Otherton's apartment house said she was devastated. Perhaps all of Ellerbee's patients were devastated. But not as much as the doctor…
"Mr. Symington," Boone said, "were your relations with Doctor Simon friendly?"
"Friendly?" he said with a theatrical grimace.
"My God, no! How can you be friendly with your shrink? He hurt me.
Continually. He made me uncover things I had kept hidden all my life. It was very painful."
"Let me try to understand," Delaney said.
"Your relations with him were kind of a duel?"
"Something like that," Symington said hesitantly.
"I mean, it's not all fun and games. Yes, I guess you could say it was a kind of duel."
"Did you ever attack Doctor Simon?" Boone asked suddenly.
"Physically attack him?"
The gold chain clinked as Symington threw out his arm in a gesture of bravura.
"Never! I never touched him, though God knows I was tempted more than once. You must understand that most people under analysis have a love-hate relationship with their therapist. I mean, intellectually you realize the psychiatrist is trying to help you. But emotionally you feel he's trying to hurt you, and you resent it. You begin to suspect him.
You think he may have an ulterior motive for making you confess. Perhaps he's going to blackmail you."
"Did you really believe that Doctor Simon might blackmail you?" Delaney asked.
"I thought about it sometimes," Symington said, stirring restlessly.
"It wouldn't have surprised me. People are such shin, you know. You trust them, you even love them, and then they turn on you. I could tell you stories…"
"But you stuck with him for six years," Boone said.
"Of course I did. I needed the man. I was really dependent on him. And, of course, that made me resent him even more.
But kill him? Is that what you're thinking? I'd never do that. I loved Doctor Simon. We were very close. He knew so much about me."
"Did you know any of his other patients?"
"I knew a few other people who were going to him. Not friends, just acquaintances or people I'd meet at parties, and it would turn out that they were his patients or former patients."
"To your knowledge," Boone said, "was he ever threatened by a patient?"
"No. And if he was, he'd never mention it to another patient."
"Did you notice any changes in his manner?" Delaney asked' "In the past year or six months."
L. Vincent Symington didn't answer at once. He came over to the long sectional couch opposite their chairs and stretched out. He stuffed a raw silk cushion under his head and stared at them.
He had a doughy face, set with raisin eyes. His lips were unexpectedly full and rosy. He was balding, and the naked scalp was sprinkled with brown freckles. Delaney thought he looked like an aged Kewpie doll, and imagined his arms and legs would be sausages, plump and boneless.