'You never married, Reverend?' I asked.

'No. Never.' He was staring at the ceiling again, seeing things that weren't there.

'Did you tell Godfrey how you felt about him?'

'He knew.'

'And?'

'He used me. Used me! Laughing. The devil incarnate.

All I saw was the golden glow. And then the darkness beneath.'

'Knowing that, Pastor, why did you help him become a man of God?'

'Weakness. I did not have the strength of soul to withstand him. He threatened me.'

'Threatened you? How? You said that nothing happened.'

'Nothing did. But I had written him. Notes. Poems. They would have ruined me. The church. . '

Notes again. I was engulfed in notes, false and t r u e. .

I took a deep breath, trying to comprehend the extent of such perfidy. The pattern of Godfrey Knurr's life was becoming plainer. An ambition too large for his discipline to contain was the motive for trading on his charm. He moved grinning from treachery to treachery, leaving behind him a trail of scars, wounds, broken lives.

And finally, I was convinced, two murders that meant no more to him than a rifled cash register or this betrayed wreck of a man.

'So you did whatever he demanded?' I said, nailing it down. 'Got him out of scrapes, got him into the seminary?

Gave him money?'

'All,' he said. 'All. I gave him everything. My soul. My poor little shrivelled soul.'

His words 'shrivelled soul' came out slurred and garbled, almost lost between his whisky-loosened tongue and those ill-fitting dentures. I did not think he was far from the temporary oblivion he sought.

'Sylvia Wiesenfeld,' I said. 'You knew her?'

He didn't answer.

'You did,' I told him. 'Her father owned the drugstore where Godfrey stole the money. A lovely girl. So vulnerable. So willing. I saw her picture. Did she love Godfrey, too?'

His eyes were closed again. But his lips were moving faintly, fluttering. I rose, bent over him, put my ear close to his mouth, as if trying to determine if a dying man still breathed.

'What?' I said sharply. 'I didn't hear that. Please repeat it.'

This time I heard.

'I married them,' he said.

I straightened up, took a deep breath. I looked down at the shrunken, defenceless hulk. All I could think of was: Godfrey Knurr did that.

I took the whisky glass from his strengthless fingers and set it on the floor alongside the couch. He seemed to be breathing slowly but regularly. The tears had dried on his face, but whitish matter had collected in the corners of his eyes and mouth. Occasionally his body twitched, little moans escaped his lips like gas released from something corrupt.

I wandered about the lower floor of the house. I found a knitted afghan in the hall closet, brought it back to the parlour, and covered the Reverend Ludwig Stokes, a bright shroud for a grey man.

Then I went back into his study and poked about. I finally found a telephone directory in the lowest drawer of the old walnut desk. There was an S. Wiesenfeld on Sherman Street, not too far from the home of Goldie Knurr. It seemed strange that such tumultuous events had occurred in such a small neighbourhood.

The woman who answered my ring was certainly not Sylvia Wiesenfeld; she was a gargantuan black woman, not so tall but remarkable in girth. Her features, I thought, might be pleasant in repose, but when she opened the door, she was scowling and banging an iron frying pan against one redwood thigh. She looked down at me.

'We ain't buying,' she said.

'Oh, I'm not selling anything,' I hurriedly assured her.

'My name is Joshua Bigg. I represent a legal firm in New York City. I've been sent out to make inquiries into the background of Godfrey Knurr. I was hoping to have a few minutes' conversation with Miss Wiesenfeld.'

She looked at me suspiciously.

'You who? ' she said. 'You New York folks talk so fast.'

'Joshua Bigg.' I answered slowly. 'That's my name. I'm trying to obtain information about Godfrey Knurr. I'd like to talk to Sylvia Wiesenfeld for a few moments.'

'You the law?' she demanded.

'No,' I said, 'not exactly. I represent attorneys who, in turn, represent a client who is bringing suit against the Reverend Godfrey Knurr. I'm just making a preliminary investigation, that's all.'

'You going to hang him?' she demanded. 'I hope.'

I tried to smile.

' W e l l. . a h. . ' I said, 'I'm sure our client would like to.

May I speak to Miss Wiesenfeld for a few moments?'

She glared at me, making up her mind. That heavy cast-iron frying pan kept banging against her bulging thigh. I was very conscious of it.

' W e l l. . ' she said finally, 'all right.' Then she added fiercely, 'You get my honey upset, I break yo' ass!'

'No, no,' I said hastily, 'I won't upset her, I promise.'

She stared down at me again.

'You and me,' she said menacingly, 'we come to it, I figure I come out on top.'

'Absolutely,' I assured her. 'No doubt about it. I'll behave; I really will.'

Suddenly she grinned: a marvellous human grin of warmth and understanding.

'I do believe,' she said. 'Come on in, lawyer-man.'

She led me into a neat entrance hall, hung my coat and hat on an oak hall rack exactly like the one in Miss Goldie Knurr's home.

'May I know your name, please, ma'am?' I asked her.

'Mrs Harriet Lee Livingston,' she said in a rich contralto voice. 'I makes do for Miz Sylvia.'

'How long have you been with her?'

'Longer than you been breathin',' she said.

The enormous bulk of the woman was awesome. That had to be the largest behind I had ever seen on a human being, and the other parts of her were in proportion: arms and legs like waists, and a neck that seemed as big around as her head.

But her features were surprisingly clear and delicate, with slanty eyes, a nice mouth, and a firm chin that had a deep cleft precisely in the centre. You could have inserted a dime in that cleft. Her hands and feet were unexpectedly dainty, and she moved lightly, with grace.

Her colour was a briar brown. She wore a voluminous shift, a shapeless tent with pockets. It was a kaleidoscope of hues: splashes of red, yellow, purple, blue, green — all in a jangling pattern that dazzled the eye.

'You stand right here,' she said sternly. 'Right on this spot. I'll tell Miz Sylvia she's got a visitor. I takes you in without warning, she's liable to get upset.'

'I won't move,' I promised.

She opened sliding wooden doors, squeezed through, closed the two doors behind her. I hadn't seen doors like that since I left my uncle's home in Iowa. They were panelled, waxed to a high gloss, fitted with brass hardware: amenities of a bygone era.

The doors slid open again and Mrs Livingston beckoned me forward.

'Speak nice,' she whispered.

'I will,' I vowed.

'I be right here to make sure you do,' she said grimly.

The woman facing me from across the living room was small, slight, with long silvered blonde hair giving her a girlish appearance, although I knew she had to be at least forty. I could not see a leg brace; she wore a collarless gown of bottle-green velvet, a lounging or hostess gown, that fell to her ankles.

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