"Ernie, you're the sweetest and most considerate man I've ever met. You're so considerate."

"Yes… well… uh… when do you think you'll decide? Soon?"

"Oh yes. Soon. Very soon."

"Listen," he said eagerly, "I have classes Friday night. I get out about eight-thirty or so. How's about my picking up a bottle of white wine and dropping by? I mean, it'll be Friday night and all, and we can talk and get squared away on our vacation. Okay?"

She didn't have the strength to object. Everyone was pushing her-even Ernie.

"Of course," she said dully. "Friday night?"

"About nine," he said happily. "See you then. Take care of yourself, dear."

"Yes," she said. "You, too."

He hung up and she sat there staring at the phone in her hand. Without questioning why, she called Dr. Oscar Stark. She got his answering service, of course. The operator asked if she'd care to leave a message.

"No," Zoe Kohler said, "no message."

She wandered into the kitchen. She opened the cabinet door. She stared at the rows and rows of pills, capsules, ampules, powders, medicines. They all seemed so foolish. Toys.

She closed the door without taking anything. Not even her cortisol. Not even a salt tablet. Nothing would make her a new woman. She was condemned to be her.

She thought vaguely that she should eat something, but just the idea of food roiled her stomach. She poured a glass of chilled vodka and took it into the living room.

She slouched on the couch, staring into the darkness. She tried to concentrate and feel the workings of her body. She felt only deep pain, a malaise that sapped her spirit and dulled her senses.

Was this the onset of death-this total surrender to the agony of living? Peace, peace. Something warm and comfortable. Something familiar and close. It seemed precious to her, this going over. The hurt ended…

She was conscious that she was weeping, surprised that her dried flesh could squeeze out that moisture. The warm, thin tears slid down her cheeks, and she did not wipe them away. She found a glory in this evidence of her miserableness.

"Poor Zoe Kohler," she said aloud, and the spoken word affected her so strongly that she gasped and sobbed.

What she could not understand, would never understand, was what she had done to deserve this wretchedness.

She had always dressed neatly and kept herself clean. She had never used dirty words. She had been polite and kind to everyone. Whom had she hurt? She had tried, always, to conduct herself like a lady.

There may have been a few times, very few, when she had forgotten herself, denied her nature, and acted in a crude and vulgar manner. But most of her life had been above reproach, spotless, obeying all the rules her mother had taught her.

She had moved through her days refined and gentle, low-voiced, and thoughtful of the feelings of others. She had worked hard to succeed as dutiful daughter and loving wife.

And it had all, all, come to this: sitting in the darkness and weeping. Smelling her body's rot. Hounded by unfeeling men who would not stop prying into things of no concern of theirs.

Poor Zoe Kohler. All hope gone, all passion spent. Only pain remained.

July 23-24; Wednesday and Thursday…

Delaney had to see her; he could not help himself.

"You can learn a lot about people by observing them," he explained to Monica. "How they walk, how they gesture. Do they rub their eyes or pick their nose? How they light a cigarette. Do they wait for a traffic light or run through traffic? Any nervous habits? How they dress. The colors and style. Do they constantly blink? Lick their lips? And so forth."

His wife listened to this recital in silence, head bowed, eyes on the mending in her lap.

"Well?" he demanded.

"Well what?"

"I just thought you might have a comment."

"No, I have no comment."

"Maybe it'll help me understand her better. Why she did what she did. Clues to her personality."

"Whatever you say, dear," she said.

He looked at her suspiciously. He didn't trust her complaisant moods.

He told Abner Boone what he wanted to do, and the sergeant had no objections.

"Better let Bentley know, Chief," he suggested. "He can tell his spooks you'll be tailing her too. In case they spot you and call out the troops."

"They won't spot me," Delaney said, offended.

But he spotted them: the unmarked cars parked near the Hotel Granger and Zoe Kohler's apartment house, the plainclothes policewomen who followed the suspect on foot. Some of the shadows were good, some clumsy. But Zoe seemed oblivious to them all.

He picked her up on 39th Street and Lexington Avenue at 8:43 on Wednesday morning and followed her to the Granger. He hung around for a while, then wandered into the hotel and inspected the lobby, dining room, cocktail bar.

He was back at noon, and when she came out for lunch, he tailed her to a fast-food joint on Third Avenue, then back to the Granger. At five o'clock he returned to follow her home. He never took his eyes off her.

"What's she like?" Monica asked that night.

"So ordinary," he said, "she's outstanding. Miss Nothing."

"Pretty?"

"No, but not ugly. Plain. Just plain. She could do a lot more with herself than she does. She wears no makeup that I could see. Hair a kind of mousy color. Her clothes are browns and tans and grays. Earth colors. She moves very slowly, cautiously. Almost like an invalid, or at least like a woman twice her age. Once I saw her stop and hang on to a lamppost as if she suddenly felt weak or faint. Sensible shoes. Sensible clothes. Nothing bright or cheerful about her. She carries a shoulder bag but hangs on to it with both hands. I'd guess the knife is in the bag. When she confronts anyone on the sidewalk, she's always the first to step aside. She never crosses against the lights, even when there's no traffic. Very careful. Very conservative. Very law-abiding. When she went out to lunch, I thought I saw her talking to herself, but I'm not sure."

"Edward, how long are you going to keep this up-following her?"

"You think it's morbid curiosity, don't you?"

"Don't be silly."

"Sure you do," he said. "But it's not. The woman fascinates me; I admit it."

"That I believe," Monica said. "Does she look sad?"

"Sad?" He considered that a moment. "Not so much sad as defeated. Her posture is bad; she slumps; the sins of the world on her shoulders. And her complexion is awful. Muddy pale. I think I was right and Dr. Ho was right; she's cracking."

"I wish you wouldn't do it, Edward-follow her, I mean."

"Why not?"

"I don't know… It just seems indecent."

"You are a dear, sweet woman," he told her, "and you don't know what the hell you're talking about."

He went through the same routine on Thursday. He maneuvered so he walked toward her as she headed up Madison Avenue on her way to work. He passed quite close and got a good look at her features.

They seemed drawn and shrunken to him, nose sharpened, cheeks caved. Her lips were dry and slightly parted. The eyes seemed focused on worlds away. There was a somnolence about that face. She could have been a sleepwalker.

No breasts that he could see. She appeared flat as a board.

He was there a few minutes after 5:00 p.m., when she exited from the Hotel Granger and turned downtown on Madison. Delaney was behind her. Bentley's policewoman was across the avenue.

The suspect walked south on Madison, then went into a luncheonette. Delaney strolled to the corner, turned, came back. He stood in front of the restaurant, ostensibly inspecting the menu Scotch-taped inside the plate glass window.

Zoe Kohler was seated at the counter, waiting to be served. Everyone in the place was busy eating or talking. No one paid any attention to the activity on the street, to a big, lumpy man peering througn the front window.