'You're acting crazy,' Kim whimpered. 'Please -'

He tightened on her wrists, twisting, hurting her. 'Don't you tell me I'm crazy -'

'Everyone says so,' she cried out. 'Everyone knows. Even Dr. Scharf said -'

She caught herself, trying to swallow the words.

He stood over her, stone-cold, staring down at her. 'Dr. Scharf,' he said. 'You saw him -?'

'No - no, no -'

He lifted a hand and slapped her across the face. 'You saw him -?'

'No,' she gasped.

Armstead slapped her hard again.

'I called him,' she gasped. 'I was worried about you - we spoke.'

'Scharf talked to you?'

'Of - of course.'

'And said what?' Armstead roared.

She pressed her lips tight. His palm rose and fell, once, twice, slashing her against the cheek and jaw.

'Stop it - don't, Ed -' she cried. 'It was for you - for your sake I called - we talked -'

Armstead started to hit her once more, but her arm warded him off in fright as her tears mingled with blood.

'Tell me!' he demanded. 'What did he say?'

205.

'He agreed you're sick - actually, I said it - but he said you were under pressure - and he was concerned - don't, Ed, don't hit me anymore.'

Armstead came to his full height, a grim smile on his face. 'So now we have it straight. Scharf says I'm sick and Nesbit says I'm crazy.'

'No, Ed, listen -'

'The hack and the wh.o.r.e,' said Armstead. 'Now we have it from the final authorities.' 'Listen, Ed -'

she implored. But he had left her. She looked woozily over her shoulder. Armstead had stormed out of the apartment.

An hour later they were seated on a banquette at a table in the barroom of the Four Seasons, Armstead and Dietz, with Armstead speaking intently and Dietz listening intently.

When Armstead was through Dietz asked, 'Are you sure, Chief, she wasn't making it up? You believe Scharf really talked to her?'

'Positive. I suspected the little fat weasel all along.' 'And you think he implied what she claims?'

'You bet he did. Kim's not bright enough to make up something like that. She was quoting him all right.' 'What does this add up to?'

'Adds up to the fact that Scharf believes something is wrong - he's concerned - and he might be snooping around, the way the Weston girl did, and we can't have anyone get in our way just when we're on the verge of the big one.' 'Maybe you're right, Chief.'

'I know I'm right,' said Armstead emphatically. T can smell danger. Scharf is danger.' 'What do you want to do about it?' 'Stop Scharf before there's trouble. The minute you leave me tonight, I want you to arrange for somebody to get into his office and go through it. Can you?' 'No problem whatsoever,' said Dietz. 'Get someone to enter his office tonight. Should be easy. Obliterate my name - from his Rolodex, appointment pad, billings, even notes on file, if he has any. Can you arrange this?' 'Will do.'

'Then I want you to get rid of Scharf.' 'You mean all the way?'

'Naw. What the h.e.l.l. He has a wife and family. Just see that he's put out of commission for a while.

Maybe an accident in the street tomorrow, when he's walking to work.'

'Sure,' agreed Dietz. 'I can set it up. An accident. But I can't guarantee the extent of - of what happens.'

'Just put him out of commission for a while. Make a point of that. Pay your man whatever he wants to do it right. I'm sure you'll set it up okay. I know I can always count on you, Harry. I'm getting hungry. What about you? The sauteed calf s liver is always good. Let's order up.'

Edward Armstead's single hope, letting himself into the huge, elegant tenth-floor penthouse apartment, was that his wife Hannah would not be awake. He did not want to be answerable to her for again avoiding dinner and her person. He did not want to listen to her complaints about her delicate and ailing body and his own inattentiveness. He wanted to be alone, in the una.s.sailable safety of his soundproof study, at his Victorian library table-desk, to start writing the big story, the most sensational exclusive story in the history of journalism.

From the entry hall, Armstead peeked into the broad living room, into the drawing room, and there was no sign of life. Good, he told himself, because if Hannah stayed up late she usually sat in her 206 wheelchair in the living room, nodding off before the oversized television screen. After that she was in bed asleep at ten o'clock, and it was already ten thirty-five. Relieved, he entered the wide corridor that led past the two bedrooms on one side and to the ponderous oaken door to his private study opposite.

Treading gently across the corridor carpeting, he saw that the door to the first bedroom, Hannah's bedroom, was open and the lights were on. His heart fell. This meant that Hannah was awake and waiting for him. Praying that he was wrong, slowing, he glanced inside and came to a halt. She was there all right, in the wheelchair beside her bed. He met the hollow eyes, fixed in her sunken and wrinkled face, and holding on him with defiance.

'You still up?' he said. 'You should be getting some rest.'

'So should you,' she said. 'I've been waiting up for you. Where have you been so late?'

'Having dinner with Harry Dietz. We had some business to talk over.'

'Before that?'

'In the office, of course.'

'You left the office at five o'clock,' Hannah said.

Armstead ground his teeth. She was going to be difficult, the old harridan. Somehow, she knew where he'd been in between. Best to admit it, thwart her by admitting it, put it in the right light, and then she would have no grievance at all. But before he could speak, she spoke again.

'After you left the office, Edward, you went to Kim Nesbit's apartment.'

Armstead snapped his fingers. 'That's right. Almost forgot. Just looked in on her to see if she was feeling better.'

'You looked in on her for over an hour.'

'For chrissakes, Hannah, what is this? Kim's practically a relative. She took my father's death pretty hard. Since then, I've looked in on her two or three times to give her my condolences.'

'Two or three dozen times,' said Hannah bitterly. 'Some condolences.'

'You G.o.ddam witch!' shouted Armstead. 'You've been spying on me, having me followed -'

Hannah compressed her lips, hands tightening on the arms of the wheelchair until her knuckles were white. 'I just know,' she said, voice cracking. T have my sources. I won't let you humiliate me.'

'I'll do what I want to do,' Armstead shot back. 'There's nothing you can do about it.'

'There's plenty I can do, if I want to. You're forgetting my father helped finance your father when he was in trouble. My father left his stock to me. I have ownership in at least half your public holdings. I could sell off, cause you a lot of trouble.' She was wheezing now, trying to catch her breath. 'Edward, I don't want to do anything like that. I only want you to be kind, behave decently.'

'I'll be what I want to be,' Armstead said angrily. 'Don't you get in my way. And if you ever have anyone follow me again and I find out, you'll be sorry for it, G.o.ddam sorry. Just remember, Hannah, I warned you.'

With that, he grabbed the k.n.o.b of the bedroom door and slammed it shut between them.

207.

Blind with fury, he continued up the corridor to the thick oaken door of his private study. Reaching into his pocket for the heavy key - the only key to his room in existence - he tried to calm down. Everything was going smoothly, perfectly, except for the women. All his troubles were coming from women. First that young snoop, the Weston girl in Paris. Then Kim, the wh.o.r.e, selling him out, collaborating with his own a.n.a.lyst. And now the death's-head in the bedroom.

Having him followed, actually threatening him.

Inserting the silver key in the dead-bolt lock that secured his study door, he paused to examine the full implications of what Hannah had been saying. She knew about his visits to Kim, every visit, because she had hired a detective agency to follow him, shadow him, to observe his every move.

He didn't give a d.a.m.n how many times they had seen him call upon Kim. But they might have seen him consorting with someone else. Like Pagano, for instance, although there could be innocent explanations for that. Still, Hannah's jealous pursuit of him could unwittingly lead to dangerous fallouts. Especially in the next few days. Something must be done quickly.

He turned the key, shouldered the heavy door open, and entered his private study. Before turning on the lights he stood in the darkness, thinking.

The thought came to him that it might be wise to show Hannah some contrition.

Like personally serving her breakfast in the morning. Yes, he would do that. He would take over from the housekeeper, prepare and serve Hannah her breakfast in the morning.

Ollie McAllister, who had rarely been summoned from his managing editor's desk to meet with the publisher in executive territory, came tentatively into Armstead's office carrying a single folder.

Swinging restlessly from side to side in his leather-upholstered swivel chair, puffing steadily on the first cigar of the day, Armstead observed his approach. Recently he had not dealt regularly with any editors on his staff, preferring to confine all meetings to Harry Dietz, but Armstead had come in early this morning, before Dietz had arrived at work. Armstead had toiled hard and long last night on the first draft of his masterpiece - the big story - and after that had slept lightly, subconsciously aware that he had to be up early enough to make Hannah's breakfast and serve it to her.

Hannah had been grateful almost to tears for his consideration.

Dietz's not being in yet had been a minor disappointment for Armstead. There had been some unfinished business to be taken care of later last night and earlier this morning, and Armstead had been eager to know the outcome. He had waited over an hour for Dietz, and when Dietz had still not checked in, Armstead's impatience wore thin. At that point, before ten o'clock, he remembered another way he might learn the outcome of the unfinished business. He buzzed Ollie McAllister and requested the early summaries of local news from the metropolitan news desk.

Now the inquisitive McAllister was before him with the folder.

'Sit down, sit down, Ollie,' the publisher directed. McAllister folded himself uncomfortably into a rattan chair across from his publisher's desk. 'You wanted only the early news summaries from the metropolitan desk,' McAllister said, just to be certain.

'I've been neglecting cityside news,' said Armstead, 'but the last few days I've been having a look.

Nothing to cheer about. Pretty dreary stuff.'

McAllister was immediately apologetic. 'There hasn't been much locally. All the best stuff has been coming from abroad. Our Bradshaw exclusives have been dominating the s.p.a.ce.' 'Of course,' said 208 the publisher. 'Anyway, I thought I'd have a look, to see if we can beef it up. Let me see today's summaries.'

McAllister half rose, to pa.s.s the folder over the desk to Armstead. 'Thirty possible stories at this hour. I've allocated nine columns out of the 190 columns available for the news hole - nine columns for local news. We're basing it on a sixty-page first edition.'

'Let's see what we have,' said Armstead, opening the folder on his desk and rolling his chair up to it.

Armstead flipped through the summaries from the metropolitan desk, pretending to read several.

He pulled one page loose. 'What's this about the new bozo who's announcing himself as a mayoral candidate? Doesn't seem very substantial to me.'

'True, he's a novelist, but we thought it might develop into something colorful.'

'Christ, Ollie, he's got a new book coming out. This is a publicity ploy. Don't give him more than a few inches.' He shoved the summary back into the stack and continued to leaf through the others.

He separated out another page. 'Man bites dog? You've got to be kidding.'

'He actually did,' said McAllister, hoping for a smile. 'They put him away, of course.'

'And we're putting the story away,' said Armstead, crumpling the page and dropping it into his wastebasket. 'We don't have room for loonies in this newspaper.' He resumed turning the pages, stopped once more. 'Siamese twins in Bellevue. Caucasian. They're okay?'

'Thriving.'

'Follow up. Freaks are another matter. Readers like freaks.'

'Yes, sir.'

Armstead continued leafing through the early summaries, scanning them, seeking the outcome of his unfinished business. Abruptly he stopped, lifted out a page.

'What's this? Psychiatrist seriously injured by a hit-and-run driver. In critical condition. Where did this come from?'

'Simms covering the police beat. Phoned it in this morning. The shrink was crossing the street from a parking lot to his office - a car came off the curb fast - maybe the driver didn't see him - smacked the pedestrian on the left leg and side, real impact, threw him thirty feet and pancaked him against a parked vehicle - then took off.'

'Any lead on the hit-and-run?'

'No near eyewitnesses. Happened too fast. That part is hopeless.'

Hiding his satisfaction, Armstead concentrated on the news summary. 'Mm. Dr. Carl Scharf. Never heard of him. Have you?'

'No. But we intend to check him out. Can be a story if he has anybody well known as a patient.'

Armstead snorted. 'No chance. You see where the psychiatrist's office was? On Thirty-sixth Street off Broadway. What kind of psychiatrist would have an office in that neighborhood? He must be n.o.body, and his patients are n.o.bodies.'

'As I said, we can check it out.'

209.

'Don't waste the time,' said Armstead, wadding up the sheet of paper. 'About as interesting as the mugging of a housekeeper.' He threw the ball of paper away.

'I guess you're right, Mr. Armstead.'

Armstead hastily leafed through what remained in the folder, snapped the folder closed, and stood up with it. 'I think you're right about the local stuffs being on the slow side.' He handed the folder back. 'Well, do your best, Ollie. Thanks.'

He watched his managing editor leave.

He found his onyx desk lighter, flicked on the flame, applied it to his cold cigar.

A brief image of his cherubic a.n.a.lyst came to him. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had betrayed him. Served the sonofab.i.t.c.h right. He hoped Scharf wouldn't die. But if he did, he deserved it.