"I'll probably be having some expenses."

"Certainly." She folded the note in two, then folded it again. "I don't recall Jerry mentioning your name. Have you known each other for a long time?"

"Not long at all."

"You're on the force. Did you work together?"

"I used to be on the force, Mrs. Broadfield. Now I'm a sort of private detective."

"Just sort of?"

"The unlicensed sort. After all those years in the department I have an aversion to filling out forms."

"An aversion."

"Pardon me?"

"Did I say that aloud?" She smiled suddenly and her whole face brightened. "I don't think I've ever heard a policeman use that word. Oh, they use large words, but of a certain sort, you know. 'Alleged perpetrator' is my favorite phrase of all. And 'miscreant' is a wonderful word. Nobody but a policeman or a reporter ever called anybody a miscreant, and reporters just write it, they never say it out loud." Our eyes locked again and her smile faded out. "I'm sorry, Mr. Scudder. I'm babbling again, aren't I?"

"I like the way you babble."

For a second I thought she was going to blush, but she didn't. She took a breath and assured me I would have my money in a moment. I said there was no rush but she said it would be just as easy to get it over and done with. I sat down and worked on my coffee and she left the room and climbed a flight of stairs.

She returned a few minutes later with a sheaf of bills which she handed to me. I fanned them. They were all fifties and hundreds. I put them in my jacket pocket.

"Aren't you going to count them?" I shook my head. "You're very trusting, Mr. Scudder. I'm sure you told me your first name but I don't seem to remember it."

"Matthew."

"Mine is Diana." She picked up her coffee mug and drained it quickly, as if downing strong medicine. "Will it be helpful if I say my husband was with me last night?"

"He was arrested in New York, Mrs. Broadfield."

"I just told you my name. Aren't you going to use it?" Then she remembered what we were talking about and her tone changed. "What time was he arrested?"

"Around two-thirty."

"Where?"

"An apartment in the Village. He'd been staying there ever since Miss Carr brought those charges against him. He was decoyed out of there last night, and while he was out somebody brought the Carr woman to his apartment and killed her there and tipped the police. Or brought her there after she was dead."

"Or Jerry killed her."

"It doesn't make sense that way."

She thought about this, then took up another tack. "Whose apartment was it?"

"I'm not sure."

"Really? It must have been his apartment. Oh, I've always been sure he has one. There are clothes of his I haven't seen in ages, so I gather he keeps part of his wardrobe somewhere in the city." She sighed. "I wonder why he tries to hide things from me. I know so much and he must know that I know, don't you suppose? Does he think I don't know that he has other women? Does he think I care?"

"Don't you?"

She looked long and hard at me. I didn't think she was going to answer the question, but then she did. "Of course I care," she said. "Of course I care." She looked down at her coffee mug and seemed dismayed to see that it was empty. "I'm going to have some more coffee," she said. "Would you like some, Matthew?"

"Thank you."

She carried the mugs to the kitchen. On the way back she stopped at the liquor cabinet to doctor them both. She had a generous hand with the Wild Turkey bottle, making my drink at least twice as strong as the one I'd made for myself.

She sat on the couch again, but this time she placed herself closer to my chair. She sipped her coffee and looked at me over the top of her mug. "What time was that girl killed?"

"According to the last news I heard, they're estimating the time of death at midnight."

"And he was arrested around two-thirty?"

"Around that time, yes."

"Well, that makes it simple, doesn't it? I'll say that he came home just after the children went to sleep. He wanted to see me and change his clothing. And he was with me, watching television from eleven o'clock until the Carson show went off, and then he went back to New York and got there just in time to get arrested. What's the matter?"

"It won't do any good, Diana."

"Why not?"

"Nobody'll buy it. The only kind of alibi that'd do your husband any good would be an ironclad one, and the uncorroborated word of his wife- no, it wouldn't do any good."

"I suppose I must have known that."

"Sure."

"Did he kill her, Matthew?"

"He says he didn't."

"Do you believe him?"

I nodded. "I believe someone else killed her. And deliberately framed him for it."

"Why?"

"To stop the investigation into the police department. Or for private reasons- if someone had cause to kill Portia Carr, your husband certainly made a perfect fall guy."

"That's not what I meant. What makes you believe he's innocent?"

I thought about it. I had some fairly good reasons- among them the fact that he was too bright to commit murder in quite so stupid a fashion. He might kill the woman in his own apartment, but he wouldn't leave her there and spend a couple of hours drifting around without even establishing an alibi. But none of my reasons really mattered all that much and they weren't worth repeating to her.

"I just don't believe he did it. I was a cop for a long time. You develop instincts, intuition. Things have a certain feel to them, and if you're any good you know how to pick up on them."

"I'll bet you were good."

"I wasn't bad. I had the moves, I had the instincts. And I was so involved in what I was doing that I wound up using a lot of myself in my work. That makes a difference. It becomes much easier to be good at something that you're really caught up in."

"And then you left the force?"

"Yes. A few years ago."

"Voluntarily?" She colored and put a hand to her lips. "I'm very sorry," she said. "That's a stupid question and it's none of my business."

"It's not stupid. Yes, I left voluntarily."

"Why? Not that that's any of my business, either."

"Private reasons."

"Of course. I'm terribly sorry, I think I am feeling this whiskey. Forgive me?"

"Nothing to forgive. The reasons are private, that's all. Maybe I'll like telling you about it someday."

"Maybe you will, Matthew."

And our eyes got connected again and stayed locked until she abruptly drew a breath and finished the liquid in her coffee mug.

She said, "Did you take money? I mean, when you were on the force."

"Some. I didn't get rich at it, and I didn't go out looking for it, but I took what came my way. We never lived on my salary."

"You're married?"

"Oh, because I said we. I'm divorced."

"Sometimes I think about divorce. I can't think about it now, of course. Now it is incumbent upon the faithful, long-suffering wife to remain at her husband's side in his hour of need. Why are you smiling?"

"I'll trade you three aversions for one incumbent."

"It's a trade." She lowered her eyes. "Jerry takes a lot of money," she said.

"So I've gathered."

"That money I gave you. Twenty-five hundred dollars. Imagine having so much money around the house. All I did, I just went upstairs and counted it out. There's a great deal more left in the strongbox. I don't know how much he has there. I've never counted it."

I didn't say anything. She was sitting with her legs crossed at the knee and her hands folded neatly in her lap. Dark green pants on her long legs, bright green sweater, cool mint-green eyes. Sensitive hands with long slender fingers and closely trimmed unpolished nails.

"I never even knew about the strongbox until just before he began consulting with that Special Prosecutor. I can never remember that man's name."

"Abner Prejanian."

"Yes. Of course I knew Jerry took money. He never said so in so many words, but it was obvious, and he did hint at it. As if he wanted me to know but didn't want to tell me outright. It was obvious to me that we weren't living on what he earned legitimately. And he spends so much money on his clothes, and I suppose he spends money on other women." Her voice came close to breaking, but she sailed right on as if nothing had happened. "One day he took me aside and showed me the box. There's a combination lock, and he taught me the combination. He said I could help myself to money anytime I needed it, that there would always be more where that came from.

"I never opened the box until just now. Not to count it or anything. I didn't want to look at it, I didn't want to think about it, I didn't want to know how much money was in there. Do you want to know something interesting? One night last week I was thinking of leaving him and I couldn't imagine how I would be able to afford to do it. Financially, I mean. And I never even gave a thought to the money in the strongbox. It never occurred to me.

"I don't know if I'm a very moral person or not. I don't think I am, really. But there is so very much money there, don't you see, and I don't like to think what a person would have to have done in order to get all that money. Am I making any sense at all to you, Matthew?"

"Yes."

"Maybe he did kill that woman. If he decided he ought to kill a person, I don't think he'd have any moral compunctions about doing it."

"Did he ever kill anyone in the line of duty?"

"No. He shot several criminals but none of them died."

"Was he in the service?"

"He was based in Germany for a couple of years. He was never in combat."

"Is he violent? Has he ever struck you?"

"No, never. Sometimes I've been afraid of him, but I couldn't explain why. He's never given me real reason for fear. I would leave any man who hit me." She smiled bitterly. "At least I think I would. But I once thought I'd leave any man who had other women. Why do we never know ourselves as well as we think we do, Matthew?"

"That's a good question."

"I have so many good questions. I don't really know that man at all. Isn't that remarkable? I've been married to him for all these years and I don't know him. I have never known him. Did he tell you why he decided to cooperate with the Special Prosecutor?"

"I was hoping he might have told you."

She shook her head. "And I have no idea whatsoever. But then I never know why he does things. Why did he marry me? Now there's a good question. There's what I'd call a damn good question, Matthew. What did Jerome Broadfield see in mousy little Diana Cummings?"

"Oh, come on. You must know you're attractive."

"I know I'm not ugly."

"You're a lot more than not ugly." And your hands perch upon your thigh like a pair of doves. And a man could get altogether lost in your eyes.

"I'm not very dramatic, Matthew."