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kitchen； making himself a cup of hot cocoa； and would read； at random； from one of Raymond Chandler's seven novels； finding within that spare inferential prose…style a kind of existential calm amid his private storm； and inside thirty minutes he had returned to sleep。
Doc Deerforth stretched； easing the ache that sat like a stuck pitchfork between his shoulder blades。 That's what es of working all hours at my age； he thought。 Still； he went over his findings once again。 It was all there； black and white； the words piling together into sentences and paragraphs； but now he was seeing the meaning for the first time； as if he were an Egyptologist who had at last stumbled upon the Rosetta Stone。
Another routine drowning； he had thought； when they had called him out to Dune Road。 Of course he did not mean that。 The word routine had no place in his vocabulary。 Life was the most precious thing in the world to him。 But he need not have bee a doctor to feel that way。 Living through the war in the Pacific Theatre had been enough。 Day after day； from his disarrayed jungle camp during the bitter fighting in the Philippines； he had seen the cascades of small one…man planes guided by their kamikaze pilots as they plunged headlong with 2；650 pounds of high explosives in their blunt noses into the American warships。 The cultural chasm between East and West could be summed up by those aircraft； Doc Deerforth had always thought。 The Japanese name for them was Oka … the cherry blossom。 But the Americans called them baka … the idiot bomb。 Western philosophical thought had no place for the concept of ritual suicide inherent in the Japanese samurai of old。 But that was it； really。 The samurai survived； despite all obstacles that had been put in his path。 Doc Deerforth would never forget the haiku which； so the story went； had been written by a twenty…two…year…old kamikaze pilot just before his death； this； too； was tradition： 'If only we might fall / Like cherry blossoms in the spring … / So pure and radiant！' And that； he thought； was how the Japanese felt about death。 The samurai was born to the a glorious death in battle。
And all I wanted was for the war to end with my skin intact and my mind unbent。
And it had e to pass； except for the nightmares that haunted him like hungry vampires newly risen from the grave。
Doc Deerforth got up from behind his desk and went to the window。 Beyond the fluted layers of the oak leaves that shaded this side of the house from the long afternoon's heat； he saw the expanse of Main Street。 Just another weekday in the summer。 But that world now seemed a million miles away； as remote as the surface of another planet。
Doc Deerforth turned back into his office and； scooping up the manila folder and its contents； went out of the house； down Main Street towards the one…storey ugly red brick building housing the Fire Department and； beyond a courtyard parking lot； the Village Police。
Half way there； he ran into Nicholas； who was just ing out of the automated doors of the supermarket loaded down with groceries。
'Hello； Nick。'
'Hey； Doc。 How are you？'
Tine。 Fine。 Just on my way to see Ray Florum。' They had met； as most residents of West Bay Bridge did eventually； along this same Main Street； introduced by mutual acquaintances。 It was difficult here； even for the most devoutly reclusive； not to make friends even if they were only of the 'Howdy' variety。 'Just got back from Hauppauge。'
'That body they found yesterday？'
'Yeah。' Doc Deerforth turned his head quickly； spat out a bit of food that had lodged itself between his teeth。 He was glad of this diversion。 He felt a genuine fear of confronting Florum with what he had。 Besides； he liked Nicholas。 'Hey； you might've known him。 Didn't live too far from you along Dune Road。'
Nicholas smiled thinly。 'Not very likely …'
'Braughm's his name。 Barry Braughm。'
Nicholas felt a queer sense of vertigo for just a moment and he thought of Justine's words on the beach the day she had run into him。 You know how incestuous this place is。 She couldn't know how right she was。
'Yes；' Nicholas said slowly。 'I knew him。 When I was in advertising； we worked together at the same agency。' 'Say； I'm sorry； Nick。 Did you know him well？'
Nicholas thought about that for a time。 Braughm had had a brilliantly analytical mind。 He knew the public perhaps better than anyone at the agency。 What a shock to find him suddenly gone。 'Well enough；〃 he said； thoughtfully。
Swinging her around。 Slow…dancing into the night； the screen door bang open； the record player sending the music rolling in languorous ribbons； drowning the tide。 Moving in stereo。 Her arms had trembled when he had first taken them； guiding her out onto the porch。 But it was the right thing to do。 The perfect thing。 She loves to dance； first off。 And it was perfectly acceptable for him to hold her this way； even though； quite clearly； rock was sex and dancing was； subliminally； the same thing。 What matter？ She would dance。
She shadows me in the mirror And never leaves on the light。。。
In giving herself up to the rhythms she was sensual； a kind of glossy exoskeleton dissolving at her feet； unearthing an ardour rich with substantive and elemental fury。
Some things that I say to her They just don't seem to bite。。。
It was as if the music had freed her somehow of her chains； of her wounds … inhibitions was a word with far too few ramifications to serve the situation … of her fear； not of him； not of any man； but of herself。
She says leave it to me
And everything will be all right。
With her shoulder touching his and the music filling another room； she said； 'I grew up reading。 At first it was anything I could get my hands on。 While my sister； always so good with people； was out on dates； I would be gulping down one book or another。 Curiously； that didn't last long。 I mean； I kept on reading but I quickly became quite discriminating in what I read。' She laughed； a rich happy sound that surprised him in its wholeheartedness。 'Oh； I had my phases； yes indeed！ The Tremayne dog books and then Howard Pile … I adored his
Robin Hood。 One day； when I was about sixteen； I discovered de Sade。 It was rather forbidden reading then and therefore exciting。 But beyond that； I was struck by much of his writing。 And then I had this fantasy that that was the reason my parents had named me Justine。 However； when I was older and asked my mother about it； she said； 〃Well； you know； it was just a name that your father and I liked。〃 It must have appealed to her Continental leanings； I imagine； she was French； you see。 But then； oh how I washed that I had never asked her！ My fantasy was so much better than the reality of it。 Well； what can you expect？ They were both banal。'
'Was your father American？'
She turned her face towards him and the warm glow from the living…room lamps burnished one cheek as if by an artist's brush。 'Very American。'
'What did he do？'
'Let's go inside；' she said； turning from him。 'I'm cold。'
First there was the large black and white photograph of a rather heavy…set man with a firm jaw and undaunted eyes。 Printed underneath was the legend： Stanley。 Teller； Chief of Police 1932…1964。 Next to that was a framed copy of Norman Rockwell's The Runway。
The office was a spare cubicle with double windows overlooking the courtyard parking lot。 There was not much to see out there； this time of the evening。
'Why don't you cut the doubletalk； Doc； and run it by me in plain English；' Lieutenant Ray Florum said。 'Just what's so special about this drowning？〃
The subdued crackle of the two…way radio down the hall was a constant background chatter； like being on the telephone with a crossed line。
'That's just what I've been trying to explain to you；〃 Doc Deerforth said slowly and patiently。 'This man did not die of drowning。〃
Ray Florum sat down in his wooden swivel chair。 It creaked beneath his weight。 Florum was a big man； both in height and girth； which made him the butt of a series of ongoing jokes batted about good…naturedly among his staff。 He was manding officer of the Village Police of West Bay Bridge。 He had a beery…cheeked face on which was positioned dead centre； as if it were the bull's…eye of some target； a bulbous red…veined nose。 His skin was tanned to the colour of cured leather； his salt…and…pepper hair was cut en brosse。 He wore a brown Dacron suit not because he liked it but because he had to。 He would just as soon have e to work in a flannel shirt and a pair of old slacks。 'What； then；' Florum said equally slowly； 'did he die from？'
'He was poisoned；' Doc Deerforth said。 'Doc；' Florum said as he wearily rubbed his hand over his face。 'I want this to be real clear； understand？ Crystal clear。 So perfectly clear that there won't be any possibility of a misunderstanding when I make out my report。 Because； beside the State Detectives who； I'm sure you're aware； I'm gonna have to copy on this … and when I do； they're gonna be down here like locusts on a wheat…field asking us to do all their goddamned field work and then sucking us dry … beside those sonsabitches； I've gotta contend with the county bastards who're most probably gonna claim that this thing's in their jurisdiction。 And； to top it all off； now that you tell me it's a murder； I'm gonna have Flower rumbling in from Hauppauge on his white horse wondering why our investigation is taking so long and when's he gonna be relieved of the stiff； his staff's so overworked。' Florum slammed the flat of his hand down on the cover of a copy of Crime in the United States； 1979。 'Well； this time they're just gonna have to wait long enough so that they're one great step behind me。'
A sergeant came in； handed Florum several typewritten sheets and went out without a word。
'Christ； it makes my blood boil sometimes。 I'm no goddamned politician。 That's what this job calls for。 Who the hell cares whether I know police procedure or not。 God！' But he got up； still； and came back with a file which he opened on his desk。 He ran a hand through his hair； scratched at his scalp。 He began to shift through a number of eight…by…ten black and white prints which； even upside down； Doc Deerforth recognized as shots of the drowned man。
'First of all；' Doc Deerforth said calmly。 'I've taken care of
Flower。 He won't bother you； at least for the time being。'
Florum looked up briefly； inquisitively； then his gaze returned to the photos。 'Yeah； how'd you work that little miracle？'
'I haven't told him yet。'
'You mean to say；' Florum said； as he reached out an oblong magnifying…glass from a desk drawer； 'that nobody knows about this 。。。 murder but us chickens right here in this room？〃
'That's precisely what I mean；〃 Doc Deerforth said quietly。
After a time； Florum said； 'You know； there's nothing shows up on these photos。' He shuffled the photos like a deck of cards until a close…up of the head and chest of the drowned man was on top。 'Nothing but a routine drowning。'
'You won't find anything there。'
'That's what I said。'
'Doesn't mean； though； that there isn't anything to see。'
Florum sat back in his chair and crossed his hands over his ample belly。 'Okay； Doc。 I'm all ears。 You tell me about it。'
'What it boils down to is this。 The man was dead before he even hit the water。' Doc Deerforth sighed。 'It was something that might have been overlooked by even as good an M。E。 as Flower。' Florum grunted but said nothing。 'Look； there is a small traumatic puncture wound in the man's chest； middle…left； and it could easily have been mistaken for a rock scrape …which it is not。 The puncture led me to take blood samples； one of which was from the aorta； where this type of poison concentrates； it's flushed from the rest of the bloodstream within perhaps twenty minutes of death； by what means I have no idea。 It's a highly unusual cardio…vascular poison。'
Florum snapped his fingers。 'Proof！ Heart attack。'
'Yes。'
'You sure about this？'
'About the poison； yes。 Otherwise you know I wouldn't have e to you。 But I've still got some more tests to run。 It appears likely that a sliver of whatever punctured the man's flesh is still lodged in his sternum。〃 'There's no exit wound？'
'No。'
'The fall could have dislodged i