decorative touch was a plastic dwarf in a rattan planter.
The ponderous woman waiting outside the closed door of apartment 3-C eyed them suspiciously.
'I am Mrs. Blanche Yesell,' she announced in a hard voice, 'and you don't look like policemen to me.'
Sergeant Boone silently proffered his ID. She had wire-rimmed pince-nez hanging from her thick neck on a black silk cord. She clamped the spectacles onto her heavy nose and inspected the shield and identification card carefully while they inspected her.
The blue-rinsed hair was pyramided like a beehive. Her features were coarse and masculine. (Later, Boone was to say, 'She looks like a truck driver in drag.') She had wide shoulders, a deep bosom, and awesome hips. All in all, a formidable woman with meaty hands and big feet shod in nononsense shoes.
'Is this about Doctor Ellerbee?' she demanded, handing Boone's ID back to him.
'Yes, ma'am. This gentleman is Edward Delaney, and we'd Re to-2' 'I don't want my Joan bothered,' Mrs. Yesell interrupted.
'Hasn't the poor girl been through enough? She's already told you everything she knows. More questions will just upset her.
I won't stand for it.'
'Mrs. Yesell,' Delaney said mildly, 'I assure you we have no desire to upset your daughter. But we are investigating a brutal murder, and I know that you and your daughter want to do everything you can to help bring the vile perpetrator to justice.' Bemused by this flossy language, the Sergeant shot Delaney an amazed glance, but the plushy rhetoric seemed to mollify Mrs. Yesell.
'Well, of course,' she said, sniffing, 'I and my Joan want to do everything we can to aid the forces of law and order.'
'Splendid,' Delaney said, beaming.
'Just a few questions then, and we'll be finished and gone before you can say Jack Robinson.'
'I used to know a man named Jack Robinson,' she said with a girlish titter.
A certified nut, Sergeant Boone thought.
She opened the door and led the way into the apartment.
As overstuffed as she was: velvets and chintz and tassels and lace and ormolu, and whatnots, all in stunning profusion. Plus two sleepy black cats as plump as hassocks.
'Perky and Yum-Yum,' Mrs. Yesell said, gesturing proudly.
'Aren't they cunning? Let me have your coats, gentlemen, and you make yourselves comfortable.'
They perched gingerly on the edge of an ornate, pseudovictorian love seat and waited until Mrs. Yesell had seated herself opposite them in a heavily brocaded tub chair complete with antimacassar.
'Now then,' she said, leaning forward, 'how may I help you?'
They looked at each other, then back at her.
'Ma'am,' Sergeant Boone said softly, 'it's your daughter we came to talk to. She's home?'
'Well, she's home, but she's lying down right now, resting, and I wouldn't care to disturb her. Besides, I'm sure I can answer all your questions.'
'I'm afraid not,' Delaney said brusquely.
'Your daughter is the one we came to see. If we can't question her today, we'll have to return again until we can.'
She glared at him, but he would not be cowed.
'Oh, very well,' she said.
'But it's really quite unnecessary. Oh, Joan!' si7e caroled.
'Visitors!'
Right on cue, and much too promptly for one who had been lying down, resting, Joan Yesell entered from the bedroom with a timid smile. The men stood to be introduced.
Then the daughter took a straight-back chair and sat with hands clasped in her lap, ankles demurely crossed.
'Miss Yesell,' Boone started, 'we know how the murder of Doctor Simon Ellerbee must have shocked you.'
'My Joan was devastated,' Mrs. Yesell said.
'Just devastated.' Another one! Delaney thought.
Boone continued: 'But I'm sure you appreciate our need to talk to all his patients in the investigation of his death. Could you tell us the last time you saw Doctor Simon?'
'On Wednesday afternoon,' the mother said promptly.
'The Wednesday before he died. At one o'clock.'
The Sergeant sighed.
'Mrs. Yesell, these questions are addressed to your daughter. It would be best if she answered.'
'On Wednesday afternoon,' Joan Yesell said.
'The Wednesday before he died.
At one o'clock.'
Her voice was so low, tentative, that they strained to hear.
She kept her head down, staring at her clasped hands.
'That was the usual time for your appointment?'
'Yes.
'How often did you see Doctor Simon?'
'Twice a week.'
'And how long had you been consulting him?'
'Four years.'
'Three,' Mrs. Yesell said firmly.
'It's been three years, dear.'
'Three years,' the daughter said faintly.
'About.'
'Did Doctor Ellerbee ever mention to you that he had been attacked or threatened by any of his patients?'
'No.' Then she raised her head to look at them with faraway eyes.
'Once he was mugged while he was walking to his garage late at night, but that happened years ago.'
'Miss Yesell,' Delaney said, 'I have a question you may feel is too personal to answer. If you prefer not to reply, we'll understand completely.
Why were you going to Doctor Ellerbee?'
She didn't answer at once. The clasped hands began to twist, 'I don't see -- 2' Mrs. Yesell began, but then her daughter spoke.
'I was depressed,' she said slowly.
'Very depressed. I attempted suicide.
You probably know about that.'
'And you feel Doctor Simon was helping you?'
She came briefly alive.
'Oh, yes! So much!'
She could not, in all kindness, be called an attractive young woman. Not ugly, but grayly plain. Mousy hair and a pinched face devoid of makeup.
She lacked her mother's bold presence and seemed daunted by the older woman's assertiveness.
Her clothing was monochromatic: sweater, skirt, hose, shoes-all of a dull beige. Her complexion had the same cast.
She looked, if not unwell, sluggish and beaten. Even her movements had an invalid's languor; her thin body was without shape or vigor.
'Miss Yesell,' Boone said, 'did you notice any change in Doctor Simon recently? In his manner toward you or in his personality?'
'No 'I Mrs. Blanche Yesell said.
'No change.'
'Madam,' Delaney thundered, 'will you allow your daughter to answer our questions -please.' Joan Yesell hesitated.
