A second look at Lieutenant Harald's cool gray eyes made him decide he'd better stay after all. Sylvester doted on his niece, but he had no illusions about her mental stature, and this severe-faced young woman looked quite capable of making mincemeat of Doris. He introduced himself, clearly intending to guide the interview.

Sigrid responded politely, but her fullest attention was on Quinn's widow.

If Doris Quinn had shed any tears that morning, no traces of them were visible now. Her leaf green eyes were clear, her skin creamy perfection. She wore an oatmeal-colored dress whose simple cut enhanced her own generous lines and made Sigrid feel stick shaped and ill clothed. She knew, too, that Doris Quinn had sensed her discomfort, for the blonde had visibly relaxed as if she held a secret weapon that made her invulnerable.

Oh, no, you don't, thought Sigrid. She was stung into murmuring coldly, "I'm glad to see you're feeling better this morning, Mrs. Quinn."

Unfazed, Doris smiled sweetly. Long ago she had learned that the best defense is not defense at all-polite apologies and no explanations. "I'm sorry I couldn't speak with you last night, Lieutenant Harald. So inconvenient for you, having to come back twice."

"Not at all," Sigrid said, ashamed of her flash of cattiness now that she had herself back under control.

Unaware of the undercurrents, Sylvester knitted his thick white eyebrows at her. "How close are you to discovering who did this terrible thing, Lieutenant?"

"That's difficult to say, sir. I was hoping Mrs. Quinn might be able to help us."

"Me? How?"

"Were you aware of any conflicts your husband might have been having lately? Did he mention anyone who might have hated him enough to want him dead?"

"No, of course not," said Doris, but her eyes sought her uncle's counsel.

"Marc Humphries was furious about Riley's review last month," Sylvester said after brief concentration, "but I know for a fact that he's been in Japan since last week. What about Karoly's nephew?"

"That funny little Hungarian?" asked Doris. "Riley fussed about him being at the college, but they weren't actually fighting still. Not lately."

Sigrid heard the dubious tone in her voice. "There was someone more recent, wasn't there?"

"We-ell… Oh, but I'm sure it didn't mean anything."

Sigrid persisted until Doris finally said, "He and Jake Saxer had a fight the night before last." She described what she'd overheard between the two men, and Sigrid had the impression that she was repeating words she'd spoken before-though not to her uncle. Sylvester's keen blue eyes darted attentively back and forth between the two women.

"Arguments are almost inevitable between collaborators," he interposed smoothly, "especially when a book is taking its final shape, and one has to be ruthless about what's included and what must-by the exigencies of space-be omitted. Each tends to play devil's advocate for every example the other wishes to exclude."

Sigrid let that pass undebated. "And you can think of no one else, Mrs. Quinn? Did he ever mention conflicts with students or colleagues?"

Doris Quinn shook her elegant blonde head emphatically, but Sigrid still sensed a holding back. Who was she protecting? Leyden? She started to frame another question, but they were interrupted by Millie Minton, who seemed flustered as she opened the door.

"There's a person here who-"

The person in question was stocky and pugnacious, dark of hair and broad of face, and he elbowed past Mrs. Minton, who still stood in the doorway, nodded to her genially and closed the door, leaving her outside. "Mrs. Quinn?" he asked, looking from Sigrid to Doris.

Doris nodded, and the young man strode across the study's Persian rug to hand her an official-looking document.

"What's that?" cried Sylvester.

"A restraining order barring the sale and/or disposal of any artworks of any kind allegedly belonging to the estate of the late Riley Quinn," the stranger said cheerfully. His beautifully cut dark green suit and crisp striped tie contrasted with his cocky street-fighter body, and Sigrid caught a hint of smugness in his tone.

"Allegedly?" she queried.

The man had merry black eyes that twinkled when they met her gray ones, as if the two of them shared a very rich joke. Sigrid began to suspect they might, and she moved aside as J. Duncan Sylvester beetled his tufted brows angrily and demanded to know who he was, and what he meant be barging into a house of bereavement like this?

"My name is Stephen Laszlo," said the stocky stranger, handing Sylvester a card.

"An attorney? Whom do you represent?"

"Michael Szabo," smiled the lawyer, "nephew and rightful heir of Janos Karoly."

"Oh, for God's sake! Is he digging that up again?" Sylvester turned to Doris. "Riley must have had a copy of Karoly's will here someplace, honey. See if you can find it for Mr.-" He looked at the lawyer's card distastefully. "Ah, yes, Mr. Laszlo."

"Don't bother," said Laszlo cheerfully. "I've seen it."

"And you doubt its authenticity?" Sylvester's tone was glacial.

"Certainly not!" said Laszlo, feigning shocked anxiety. "You don't, either, do you? I must warn you we can bring witnesses who will vouch that it's in Karoly's handwriting."

It was the proper approach, thought Sigrid appreciatively, watching Sylvester's face change from anger to caution. "If you accept its legality-" he began.

"Accept? My client insists upon it," beamed Laszlo, thoroughly enjoying himself.

"I don't understand, Uncle Duncan," Doris said plaintively. "Riley always said the pictures were his. Aren't they?"

"Of course they are!" Sylvester snapped.

"No, no," said the lawyer. "On that point we must disagree."

Until then all had remained standing. Now Laszlo considerately offered Doris Quinn one of the leather armchairs and seated himself in another, placing his briefcase on the table between them. Sigrid's lips twitched as he offered to bring a chair for her; she shook her head, preferring to lean against a bookcase where she could watch the comedy unfold. J. Duncan Sylvester, his tufted eyebrows beetling furiously, found himself seated behind Riley Quinn's desk.

"You see, Mrs. Quinn," the young lawyer began confidentially, "we have to ask ourselves why Janos Karoly would leave his entire estate to your husband and completely disinherit his own blood nephew?"

"He. liked Riley," said Doris. "Riley helped him, and it was Karoly's way of repaying him."

"Now, Doris," said Sylvester, "that was before you met Riley and-"

"But he told me all about it," Doris said indignantly. "Karoly trusted him and wanted him to have the pictures."

"'Karoly trusted him!'" Stephen Laszlo repeated her words as if they were a gift from heaven. He smiled at Sylvester and Sigrid. "I do hope you'll both remember that if you're called upon to testify." He turned back to Mrs. Quinn. "Of course he trusted your husband. It was a noble thing Dr. Quinn did-helping Karoly come to America, giving him a place to live and paint. But why did he come to America at all, Mrs. Quinn? Do you know?"

Sylvester drummed his fingers on the leather desk top impatiently. "We've no need of history lessons, Mr. Laszlo. You know as well as anyone else that he came because the Communist takeover in Hungary made it unsafe for him to remain there."

"You're quite right, Mr. Sylvester, I do know." Deliberately Laszlo forced their awareness of the almost imperceptible accent that underlay his own speech. "In 1956 it became unsafe for anyone to mention freedom in Hungary. In speech, in literature and in art. Had he remained, Janos Karoly would have been shot, his paintings burned as decadent trash. It was that way in '56, '57, '58, '59."

The numbers fell like hammer blows, and Sigrid decided he was probably an excellent courtroom lawyer.