he had learned about him.
The Kraut talked to Symington's neighbors, the super of his townhouse, owners of stores where he shopped. Konigsbacher even got in to interview the personnel manager of the investment counseling firm where Symington worked.
Using a phony business card, Konigsbacher said he was running a credit check on Symington in connection with a loan application for a cooperative apartment. The manager gave Symington a glowing reference, but the Kraut discounted that because he thought the personnel guy was a fruitcake, too.
Outside of business hours, L. Vincent Symington Red to prowl. He dined at a different restaurant almost every night, sometimes alone, sometimes with another man, never with a broad.
After dinner, he'd go bar-hopping. But invariably, around midnight, he'd end up in a place on Lexington Avenue near 40th Street, the Dorian Gray.
From the outside it didn't have much flash; the facade was distressed pine paneling with one small window that revealed a dim interior with lighted candles on the tables and a piano at the rear. It was usually crowded.
On the third night Konigsbacher tailed Symington to the Dorian Gray, waited about five minutes, then went inside. It turned out to be the most elegant gay bar the Kraut had ever seen-and he had seen a lot of them, from the Village to Harlem.
This joint was as hushed as a church, with everyone speaking in whispers and even the laughter muted. The black woman at the piano played low-keyed Cole Porter, and the bartender-who looked like a young Tyrone Power-seemed never to clink a bottle or glass.
The Kraut stood a moment at the entrance until his eyes became accustomed to the dimness. There were maybe two or three women in the place, but all the other patrons were men in their thirties and forties.
Practically all of them wore conservative, vested suits. They looked like bankers or stockbrokers, maybe even morticians.
Most of the guys at the small tables were in pairs; the singles were at the bar. Konigsbacher spotted his victim sitting alone near the far end.
There was an empty barstool next to him. The Kraut sauntered down and swung aboard. The bartender was there immediately.
'Good evening, sir,' he said.
'What may I bring you?'
The Kraut would have liked a belt of Jack Daniel's with a beer chaser, but when he looked around he saw all the other customers at the bar were having stemmed drinks or sipping little glasses of liqueur.
'Vodka martini straight up with a twist, please,' he said, surprised to find himself whispering.
'Very good, sir.'
While he waited for his drink, he glanced at the tinted mirror behind the bar and locked stares with L. Vincent Symington. They both looked away.
He drank half his martini, slowly, then pulled a pack of Kents and a disposable lighter from his jacket pocket. The beautiful bartender was there immediately with a small crystal ashtray. The Kraut lighted his cigarette, then left the pack and lighter on the bar in front of him.
A few moments later Symington took a silver case from his inside pocket, snapped it open, selected a long, cork-tipped cigarette.
'I beg your pardon,' he said to Konigsbacher in a fluty voice.
'I seem to have forgotten my lighter. May I borrow yours?'
It was like a dance, and the Kraut knew the steps.
'Of course,' he said, flicked the lighter, and held it for the other man. Symington grasped his hand lightly as if to steady the flame. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and seemed to swallow the smoke.
'Thank you,' he said.
'Dreadful habit, isn't it?'
'Sex, you mean?' Konigsbacher said, and they both laughed.
Ten minutes later they were seated at a small table against the wall, talking earnestly. They leaned forward, their heads almost touching.
Beneath the table, their knees pressed.
'I can tell, Ross,' Symington said, 'that you take very good care of yourself.'
'I try to, Vince,' the Kraut said.
'I work out with weights every morning.'
'I really should do that.'
He hesitated, then asked, 'Are you married, Ross?'
'My wife is; I'm not.'
Symington leaned back and clasped his hands together, 'Love it,' he said.
'Just love it! My wife is; I'm not. I'll have to remember that.'
'How about you, Vince?'
'No. Not now. I was once. But she walked out on me.
Taking, I might add, our joint bank account, our poodle, and my personal collection of ancient Roman coins.'
'So you're divorced?'
'Not legally, as far as I know.'
'You really should be, Vince. You might want to remarry someday.'
'I doubt that,' Symington said.
'I doubt that very much.'
'It's a sad, sad, sad, sad world,' the Kraut said mournfully, 'and we must grab every pleasure we can.'
'Truer words were never spoken,' the other man agreed, snapped his fingers at the pretty waiter, and ordered another round of drinks.
'Vince,' Konigsbacher said, 'I have a feeling we can be good friends. I hope so, because I don't have many.'
'Oh, my God,' Symington said, running his palm over his bald pate.
'You, too? I can't tell you how lonely I am.'
'But there's something you should know about me,' the Kraut went on, figuring it was time to get down to business, 'I'm under analysis.'
'Well, for heaven's sake, that's no crime. I was in analysis for years.'
Was? You're not now?'
'No,' Symington said sorrowfully.
'My shrink was killed.'
'Killed? That's dreadful. An accident?'
The other man leaned forward again and lowered his voice.
'He was murdered.'
Murdered? My God!'
'Maybe you read about it. Doctor Simon Ellerbee, on the Upper East Side.'
'Who did it-do they know?'
'No, but I keep getting visits from the police. They have to talk to all his patients, you know.'
'What a drag. You don't know anything about it-do you?'
'Well, I have my ideas, but I'm not telling the cops, of course. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil.'
'That's smart, Vince. Just try to stay out of it.'
'Oh, I will. I have my own problems.'
'What kind of a man was he-your shrink?'
'Well, you know what they're like; they can be just nasty at times.'
'How true. Do you think he was killed by one of his patients?'
Symington swiveled his head to look carefully over both shoulders, as if suspecting someone might be listening. Then he leaned even closer and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper.
'About six months ago-it was on a Friday night-I was crossing First Avenue.
