The driver turned around to stare at him. "I don't go to Queens," he said.

"Sure you do," Edward X. Delaney said genially. "Or we can go to the Two-five-one Precinct House, just a block away. Or, if you prefer, you can take me downtown to the Hack Bureau and I'll swear out a complaint there."

"Jesus Christ!" the driver said disgustedly and slammed the cab into gear.

They made the trip in silence, which was all right with Delaney. He was rehearsing in his mind the questions he wanted to ask Albert Braun.

It was a pleasant house on a street of lawns and trees. In spring and summer, Delaney thought, it would look like a residential street in a small town, with people mowing the grass, trimming hedges, poking at flower borders. He had almost forgotten there were streets like that in New York.

She must have been watching for him through the front window, for the door opened as he came up the stoop. She filled the doorway: a big, motherly woman with twinkling eyes and flawless complexion.

"Mr. Delaney?" she said in a warm, pleasing voice.

"Yes. You must be Mrs. Kaslove. Happy to meet you."

He took off his homburg. They shook hands. She ushered him into a small entrance hall, took his hat and coat, hung them away in a closet.

"I can't tell you how he's looking forward to your visit," she said. "I haven't seen him so alive and chirpy in months."

"If I had known…"

"Now you must realize he's been a very sick man," she rattled on, "and not be shocked at the way he looks. He's not bedridden, but when he gets up, he uses a wheelchair. He's lost a lot of weight and the left side of his face-you know-from the stroke…"

Delaney nodded.

"An hour," she said definitely. "The doctor said he can sit up an hour at a time. And try not to upset him."

"I won't upset him," the Chief said. He held up his brown paper bag. "Can he have a drink?"

"One weak highball a day," she said firmly. "You'll find glasses in his bathroom. Now I'm going to run out and do some shopping. But I'll be back long before your hour is up."

"Take your time," Delaney said, smiling. "I won't leave until you get back."

"His bedroom is at the head of the stairs," she said, pointing. "On your right. He's waiting for you."

The Chief took a deep breath and climbed the stairs slowly, looking about. It was a cheerful, informal home. Patterned wallpaper. Lots of chintz. Bright curtains. Some good rugs. Everything looked clean and shining.

The man in the bedroom was a bleached skeleton propped up in a motorized wheelchair parked in the middle of the floor. A crocheted Afghan covered his lap and legs and was tucked in at the sides. A fringed paisley shawl was draped about his bony shoulders. He wore a starched white shirt, open at the neck to reveal slack, crepey skin.

His twisted face wrenched in a grimace. Delaney realized that Albert Braun was trying to grin at him. He stepped forward and picked up the man's frail white hand and pressed it gently. It felt like a bunch of grapes, as soft and tender.

"How are you?" he asked, smiling.

"Getting along," Braun said in a wispy voice. "Getting along. How are you, Captain? I thought you'd be in uniform. How are things at the precinct? The usual hysteria, eh?"

Delaney hesitated just a brief instant, then said, "You're right. The usual hysteria. It's good to see you again, Professor."

"Professor," Braun repeated, his face wrenching again. "You're the only cop I ever knew who called me 'Professor.'"

"You are a professor," Delaney said.

"I was," Braun said, "I was. But not really. It was just a courtesy, an honorary title. It meant nothing. Detective Sergeant Albert Braun. That's who I was. That meant something."

The Chief nodded understandingly. He held out the brown paper bag. "A little something to keep you warm."

Braun made a feeble gesture. "You didn't have to do that," he protested. "You better open it for me, Captain. I don't have much strength in my hands these days."

Delaney tore the wrappings away and held the bottle close to the man in the wheelchair.

"Scotch," Braun said, touching the bottle with trembling fingers. "What makes the heart grow fonder. Let's have one now for old times' sake."

"I thought you'd never ask," Delaney said, and left the old man cackling while he went into the bathroom to mix drinks. He poured himself a heavy shot, tossed it down, and stood there, gripping the sink as he felt it hit. He thought he had been prepared, but the sight of Albert Braun had been a shock.

Then he mixed two Scotch highballs in water tumblers, a weak one for the Professor, a dark one for himself. He brought the drinks back into the bedroom. He made certain Braun's thin fingers encircled the glass before he released it.

"Sit down, Captain, sit down," the old man said. "Take that armchair there. I've got the cushions all broke in for you."

Edward X. Delaney sat down gingerly in what seemed to him to be a fragile piece of furniture. He hoisted his glass.

"Good health and a long life," he toasted. "I'll drink to good health," Braun said, "but a long life is for the birds. All your friends die off. I feel like the Last of the Mohicans. Say, whatever happened to Ernie Silverman? Remember him? He was with the…"

Then they were off and running-twenty minutes of reminiscences, mostly gossip about old friends and old enemies. Braun did most of the talking, becoming more garrulous as he touched the watery highball to his pale lips. Delaney didn't see him swallowing, but noted the level of liquid was going down.

Then the old man's glass was empty. He held it out in a hand that had steadied.

"That was just flavored water," he said. "Let's have another with more kick to it."

Delaney hesitated. Braun stared at him, face mangled into a gargoyle's mask.

All his bones seemed to be knobby, pressing out through parchment skin. Feathers of grayish hair skirted his waxen skull. Even his eyes were filmed and distant, gaze dulled and turned inward. Black veins popped in his sunken temples.

"I know what Martha told you," Braun said. "One weak drink a day. Right?"

"Right," Delaney said. Still he hesitated.

"She keeps the booze downstairs," the skeleton complained. "I can't get at it. I'm eighty-four," he added in a querulous tone. "The game is up. You think I should be denied?"

Edward X. Delaney made up his mind. He didn't care to analyze his motives.

"No," he said, "I don't think you should be denied."

He took Braun's glass, went back to the bathroom. He mixed two more Scotch-and-waters, middling strong. He brought them into the bedroom, and Braun's starfish hand plucked the glass from his hand. The old man sampled it.

"That's more like it," he said, leaning back in his wheelchair. He observed Delaney closely. The cast over his eyes had faded. He had the shrewd, calculating look of a smart lawyer.

"You didn't come all the way out here to hold a dying man's hand," he said.

"No. I didn't."

"Old 'Iron Balls,' " Braun said affectionately. "You always did have the rep of using anyone you could to break a case."

"That's right," Delaney agreed. "Anyone, anytime. There is something I wanted to ask you about. A case. It's not mine; a friend's ass is on the line and I promised I'd talk to you."

"What's his name?"

"Abner Boone. Detective Sergeant. You know him?"

"Boone? Boone? I think I had him in one of my classes. Was his father a street cop? Shot down?"

"That's the man."

"Sure, I remember. Nice boy. What's his problem?"

"It looks like a repeat killer. Two so far. Same MO, but no connection between the victims. Stranger homicides. No leads."

"Another Son of Sam?" Braun said excitedly, leaning forward. "What a case that was! Did you work that one, Captain?"