numbing chill from the frozen pavement.
The doctor greeted him at the office door with a tentative smile. The little man was wearing his holey wool cardigan and worn carpet slippers.
He seemed staggered by the weight of Delaney's overcoat, but he hung it away manfully and offered a cup of black coffee from a desk thermos.
Delaney accepted gratefully.
'Doctor Samuelson,' Delaney began, keeping his voice low-pitched and conversational, 'thank you for giving me your valuable time. I wouldn't have bothered you, but some things have come up in the investigation of Simon Ellerbee's death that puzzle us, and I hoped you might be able to help.'
The doctor made a gesture.
'Whatever I can do,' he said.
'First of all, we have discovered that for the past year or so, Doctor Simon had been having an affair with Joan Yesell, one of his patients.'
Samuelson stared at him through the thick curved lens of his wire-rimmed glasses.
'You are certain of this?'
'Absolutely, sir. Not only from a statement by the lady concerned, but from the testimony of corroborating witnesses.
You were probably the Ellerbees' best friend, doctor-saw them frequently in town, visited their Brewster home on weekends-yet in our first meeting you stated that Doctor Simon was faithful to his wife, and theirs was a happy marriage. You had no inkling of Simon's infidelity?'
'Well-ah-I might have had a suspicion. But you cannot condemn a man because of suspicion, can you? Besides, poor Simon is dead, and what good would it do to tarnish his reputation? Is this important to your investigation?'
'Very important.'
'You mean the patient involved, this Joan Yesell, may have killed him?'
'She is being watched.'
Samuelson shook his head dolefully.
'What a dreadful thing. And what a fool he was to get involved with a patient.
Not only a horrendous breach of professional ethics, but a despicable insult to his wife. Do you think she was aware of his philandering?'
She says no. Do you think she was?'
'Mr. Delaney, how can I possibly answer a question like that? I don't know what Diane thinks.'
'Don't you, doctor? I noticed some unusual facts in your personal history.
First, you were acquainted with both Ellerbees for some time prior to their marriage. Second, you suffered a breakdown two weeks after their marriage. Third, you continue to maintain a close relationship with Diane. I don't wish to embarrass you or cause you pain, but whatever you tell me will be of tremendous help in convicting Simon's killer. And will, of course, be held in strictest confidence.
Doctor Samuelson, are you in love with Diane Ellerbee?'
The diminutive man looked like he had been struck a blow.
His nartow shoulders sagged. The large head on a stalky neck fell to one side as if he hadn't the strength to support it. His grayish complexion took on an even unhealthier pallor.
'Is it that obvious?' he asked with a failed smile.
Delaney nodded.
'Well, then-yes, I love her. Have since the first time I met her. She was studying with Simon then. My wife had died years before that. I suppose I was a lonely widower. Still am, for that matter. I thought Diane was the most beautiful woman I had ever met. Had ever seen. Her beauty simply took my breath away.'
'Yes, she's lovely.'
'Every man who has met her feels the same way. I have always felt there is something unearthly about her beauty. She seems to be of a different race than human. There! You see the extent of my hopeless passion?'
That line was spoken with wry self-mockery.
'Why hopeless?' Delaney asked.
'Look at me,' Samuelson said.
'A shrimp of a man.
Twenty years older than Diane. And not much to look at.
Besides, there was Simon: a big, handsome, brilliant fellow closer to her own age. I could see the way she looked at him, and knew I had no chance. Is all this making me a prime suspect in the murder?'
'No,' Delaney said, smiling, 'it's not doing that.'
'Well, I didn't do it, of course. I could never do anything like that. I abhor violence. Besides, I loved Simon almost as much as I did Diane-in a different way.'
'You've spent a lot of time with her, doctor. Especially since her husband's death. Would you say she's a proud woman?'
'Proud? Not particularly. Confident, certainly.'
'Very sure of herself?'
'Oh, yes.'
'Obstinate?'
'She can be stubborn on occasion.'
'What you're saying is that she likes her own way?'
Samuelson thought that over for a few seconds.
'Yes,' he said finally. 'I think that's a fair assessment: She likes her own way. That's hardly a fault, Mr. Delaney.'
'You're right, sir, it isn't; we all like to get our own way.
Prior to Simon's death, did Diane give any indication at all that she was aware of her husband's unfaithfulness? Please think carefully before you answer, doctor; it's very important.
Samuelson poured them both more coffee, emptying the desk thermos. Then he sat back, patting the Waves of his heavy russet hair. Delaney wondered again if it might be a rug.
'I honestly cannot give you a definite answer,' the psychiatrist said.
'Certain things, the way people talk and act, can seem perfectly normal, innocuous. Then someone like you comes along and asks, can you interpret that talk and those actions in this manner-is the person in question suspicious, jealous, paranoid, depressive, or whatever? And almost invariably the speech and actions can be so interpreted. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr. Delaney? Human emotions are extremely difficult to analyze. They can mean almost anything you want them to mean: open and above board or devious and contrived.'
'I do understand that, doctor, and agree with you. But even with that disclaimer, can you state definitely that Diane was not aware of her husband's infidelity?'
'No, I cannot say that.'
'Then, from your observations of her during the past year, can you say she may have been aware?'
'Possibly,' Dr. Samuelson said cautiously.
Delaney sighed, knowing he was not going to get any more than that.
'Doctor, Diane strikes me as being a very controlled woman, always in command of herself. Do you agree?'
'Oh, yes.'
'Did you ever see her when she was not in control?'
'Only once,' Samuelson said with a rueful smile.
'And then it was over such a stupid thing. It happened last year. I was out at their Brewster home for the weekend. It was in the fall, and quite cool. Simon liked to have dinner on the patio, and planned to grill steaks on the barbecue. Diane insisted it was too cold to eat out-of-doors, and wanted us to stay inside.
A furious argument erupted. I stayed out of it, of course. They really went at it, hammer and tongs, and said a lot of things I'm sure they were sorry for later. Finally Diane grabbed the package of steaks-they were beautiful sirloins-ran out of the house, and threw them in the stream. That was the end of our steak dinner. But at least it had the effect of clearing the air, and after a while we were laughing about it, We opened two cans of tuna and
