"According to Victor Earle, he OD'd in France in the spring of seventy-one." "Merde!"

"My sentiments, too."

Lowry stood to go and there was indecision, on his good-natured face. "Did you do something to your hair. Lieutenant? It looks different."

"I had it cut."

"Looks nice."

"Thanks. Was there something else, Lowry?"

"Well, I was wondering if you'd seen Albee. She's not at her desk and-"

"She's out checking on Ivanovich's movements Sunday morning," Sigrid answered guiltily, and was relieved when a uniformed officer from Communications stuck her head in the door and said, "Lieutenant Harald? This just came in for you."

Lowry started to leave; but as Sigrid scanned the telex, she called him back and handed it to him. According to the Michigan branch of a certain religious denomination which presently held all the records of Carlyle Union College from its founding in 1883 till its closing in 1979, the only Theodore Flythe ever to graduate from dear old CUC was an Alfred Theodore Flythe, Class of 1907.

"Funny, he doesn't look that old," said Lowry. Î

"Want to go talk to him about it?"

"Sure."

"And now that we know he's not Fred Hamilton, you might ask him where he was between 10:41 and 10:55 on Sunday morning. One thing more, Lowry. It doesn't look as if Flythe was one of the Red Snow terrorists; but just the same, take somebody with you. Eberstadt maybe. Or Peters. Whoever killed Pernell Johnson was quick with his hands."

"You don't suppose Albee's coming back soon?"

"I doubt it," Sigrid said, and hoped he wouldn't notice that Lieutenant Knight seemed to be missing as well.

Her wristwatch showed well past four now and she'd promised to meet Nauman at Piers Leyden's art exhibit before six. Normally she'd have gone straight from work, but today… her hand touched the back of her neck and that strange lightness returned, almost as if the cutting of her hair had also cut away some of her inhibitions.

She thought of a certain claret-coloredd ress Anne had brought her from London last fall. Nauman had never seen her in red.

She was halfway down the hall before she remembered and went back for the little pink plastic bag of cosmetics,

Daylight was fading as Sigrid stepped from the cab a few doors off Fifth Avenue. The small elevator that conveyed clients to the third-floor gallery was lined with smoky gold-threaded mirrors and she gave her reflection a final worried inspection.

The purplish-red dress was simply cut, with a softly flared skirt and long full sleeves that nicely concealed her bandaged arm. It was topped with a short paisley-embroidered tabard of rich jewel tones, and she'd found a small black patent leather shoulder bag with skinny straps to match her shoes.

There hadn't been time to do her nails, but she'd followed Ida's instructions exactly on the makeup and come away with a new respect for women like

Madame Ronay and Commander Dixon. It had taken her four tries before she got the eyeliner on straight. Under the fluorescent light in her bathroom, it had looked a little exaggerated, but Ida was right: in this subdued lighting, her eyes did look deeper and more interesting.

The elevator came to a stop and a small empty spot of stage fright settled in Sigrid's diaphragm. As the doors opened, she took a deep breath and stepped out into a babble of voices.

"Still no answer, huh, kid?" asked Eberstadt as Jim Lowry came back to the car parked in front of Flythe's apartment after trying Elaine Albee's telephone number again.

"We didn't actually have a date," said Lowry. "I said something this morning about a movie, but nothing definite."

He settled back in the seat disconsolately. They had missed Flythe at his office and it was beginning to look as if the Graphic Games rep had his own plans for the evening.

"Let's give him another twenty minutes and then, call it a day," suggested Eberstadt, rummaging in the bottom of the bag which had held their greasy cheeseburgers for the last stray french fry. His kids were teenagers, his wife on half a dozen church committees, so he was in no hurry to get home; but he remembered how it used to be.

Even as he spoke, they saw Ted Flythe swing down from a city bus on the corner and head toward them, jingling his door keys.

They got out of the car. "Mr. Flythe? NYPD. About the Maintenon case."

"Yeah?" He stood with his key ring dangling from his index finger. "I remember you guys. What's happening?"

"We wondered if we could ask you a few more questions."

"Sure. Come on up."

Flythe's apartment was not all that different from his, thought Jim Lowry, looking around. A little bigger maybe, a little neater, but definitely the space inhabited by a man living without a woman. He'd never quite understood why a woman's apartment differed froma man's. It was the same sort of furniture, the same rugs on the floor, and sometimes the same stacks of newspapers and magazines and dirty dishes piled just as high; and yet there was always something. Lamps maybe? Light always seemed softer in a woman's place.

"How about a beer?" asked Ffythe from the kitchen.

"Sure," said Eberstadt.

"Nothing for me, thanks," said Lowry, prowling the living room restlessly. Should he call Lainey again? It wasn't like her not to leave a message.

"So, gentlemen," said Flythe as he opened their beers. "What would you like to know?"

"More routine," said Eberstadt, co-opting the most comfortable chair in the room. There were no coasters on the end table, so he used a magazine for his beer can. "Just getting the loose ends straight. This was your first tournament with Graphic Games?"

"Right." Flythe blotted the foam from his neat Vandyke beard and repeated what he'd told them before: how long he'd been with Graphic Games, a bit ofh is previous history. He seemed almost as relaxed.as Matt Eberstadt.

Jim Lowry was still roaming the room and he paused before a framed diploma over the stereo. " Carlyle Union College," he read, then peered closer at the faded ink. "June 1967."

"You were probably just entering grade school," said Flythe. "You sure I can't get you a drink?"

"No, thanks. We were wondering about Sunday morning."

"What about it?"

"Did you know the kid that was killed? Pernell Johnson?"

"Not by name. I'd seen him ground all weekend though."

"Talk to him much?"

Flythe shook his head. "No need to. Miss Baldwin and the room steward-What's his name? George? They kept that side of the tournament running smoothly. I'll say that for the Maintenon. Graphic Games got its money's worth. Lucienne Ronay runs a class operation. Those fancy ballrooms."

"We heard you liked the bedroom, too," said Eberstadt, with a slow winkt hat was a visual nudge.

Flythe gave an airy man-of-the-world wave of his hand. "No point letting opportunity knock and not get up to answer," he grinned.

"The last time anyone seems to have seen Johnson alive was about the middle of the break on Sunday morning," said Lo wry. "About 10:41. Did you run into him after the break began?"

"Nope, can't say that I did." Flythe drained his glass and looked at Eberstadt's. "Ready for another suds?"

"No, thanks. Let me get this straight, now. When you left the tournament, you went out the back exit, right?"

"Right. There's an elevator behind the one in the lobby and I took it up to my room. Had to change my shirt because of one of those ditsy kids. I didn't even know she was there. I turned around right after the break started and she had one of those goddamned permanent markers in her hand-getting ready to make someone a new name tag she said-and put a black line three inches long right across the front of a new forty-five-dollar shirt. And don't think that didn't go on the expense account I turned in yesterday."