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much better than the tuna sandwich I would have brought along, that I’m doubly satisfied.”
    “Good.” He looked at his watch. “I have a patient to see in a few minutes. If there’s anything else—”
    “Not for now. Thank you for your time.”
    “I hope it pays off.”
    So did I.

4
    I spent a little time walking around the East Side of New York. I enjoy looking in shop windows, even if what they offer costs more than I will ever be able to afford. And it was nice to walk in the early summer air.
    I had a lot to think about. Dr. Horowitz had given me the addresses for everyone in his group, including Fred Beller who never came and George Fried’s widow. Just to make sure that I covered everyone, I would call their numbers as well, although I could not imagine what help the people at the other end would be.
    As I was about to finish my little stroll, it occurred to me that the restaurant where Arthur Wien had been murdered was only a few blocks away. I checked the time and, having plenty of it, went off to get a firsthand look at the crime scene.
    It was a beautiful place in the East Sixties, a doorman in the street and a maitre d’ inside whom I would have to convince to show me the men’s room where the homicide occurred. He smiled and asked if I wanted a table for one.
    “Thank you, I’m not here for lunch. I’m a friend of Dr. Morton Horowitz of the group that met here last Sunday.”
    He frowned. “Yes, I recall.”
    “I’m doing a little research into the murder for Dr. Horowitz,” I said, watching his face become more unhappy. “I wonder if someone could show me the room in which the party was held and the men’s room where the murder took place.”
    “This is a police matter. I don’t think we can cooperate with—are you a journalist?”
    “Not at all. I’m a friend of Dr. Horowitz. He asked me to look into some aspects of the murder.”
    I wasn’t surprised to see him confused. I hadn’t said very much of substance.
    “Just a minute.” He went over to a waiter and said something, then returned. “It’ll be a few minutes. What did you say your name was?”
    “Christine Bennett.”
    He looked over my shoulder and smiled broadly as someone came into the restaurant. “Mr. Browning, how nice to see you. I have your table waiting.”
    I looked out over the linen cloths and well-dressed diners. A waiter came from the kitchen and set his tray down. He carried two dishes to a table where a man and a woman were sitting with glasses of wine at their places.
    “Ms. Bennett?”
    A busboy was standing next to me. “Yes.”
    “Come with me, please.”
    I followed him to the back of the restaurant and into a windowless room with several empty unset tables. “This is where the party was last Sunday evening?”
    “Yes, ma’am. There was a different table in here that night, a single table for the whole group. But this is the room.”
    “Thank you. Is that the only door?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    “May I see the men’s room now?”
    “I’ll check to make sure it’s empty.”
    We went out, made a turn, and went down a short hall with two doors. The first was the men’s room. The busboy went inside and came out almost immediately. He held the door open for me.
    There were two stalls on the right in the back, two urinals on the left, two sinks on the right, one paper towel holder on the wall to the right of the sinks, and a window on the wall where the farther stall was. I walked over to it and tried to open it.
    “That’s kept locked,” the busboy said. “The restaurant is air-conditioned.”
    “I see.” I flipped open my notebook and made a quick sketch of the room. “Thank you. That’s fine.”
    He opened the door for me and we went out. He went back to the kitchen, and I walked through the restaurant to the maitre d’ and thanked him. I was sure he was glad to see the last of me.
    It’s a long drive from New York to the small suburban community where Jack and I live. Oakwood is