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garroted with a length of wire, had the murderer bothered with this grotesque embellishment?
    The photograph of the Jack and Hammer was even more bizarre. The body of Rufus Ainsley, limp as it was after the rigor had passed off, had been supported by the narrow metal bar that had secured the carved figure to the beam. This tube had been run up inside the victim’s shirt, a rope lashed around his midsection, and all then covered by his buttoned-up suit jacket. There were still clumps of unmelted snow on his shoulders. There it was, then, the body hidden in plain sight, the best place to hide anything — beneath your feet or over your head. The victim was a smallish man, five feet five or six, so he made a good stand-in for the carved figure. Hard to say how long it would have been before someone had looked up; anyway, people see what they expect to see.
    But again, Why? What purpose was served by this elaborate ruse?
    He gathered up the photos, opened the shallow desk drawer, and slid the folder in beside a small, framed photograph. It was lying in the drawer, face down. Jury had taken it off the desk, but couldn’t bring himself to throw it away. When he was younger, Jury hadn’t given much thought to marriage. He thought about it now, though. In forty years, rarely had a special woman come along. Maggie had been one.
    Jury put her picture back, face down, closed the drawer, and was locking it with a little key when he heard a rap at the door.
    â€œInspector Jury,” said the woman outside when he openedthe door, clasping and unclasping her hands, “he’s out there again. I don’t know what to do. Why don’t he leave me alone?”
    â€œI’ve just got in, Mrs. Wasserman —”
    â€œI know, I know, and I hate to trouble you. But . . .” She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. She was a heavy woman, dressed in a black dress pinned at the bosom with a filigree brooch. Her black hair was pulled back smooth and tight into a bun coiled up like a spring. She made him think of a tightly wound spring herself, as she kneaded her hands and pushed her sweater sleeve up to the elbow in a nervous gesture.
    â€œI’ll go down with you,” said Jury.
    â€œIt’s the same shoes, Inspector. You know, I can always tell by the shoes. What’s he want? . . . Why don’t he leave me alone? . . . Is that grill strong enough, do you think? . . . Why does he keep coming back and back? . . .” Her questions floated back to Jury as they descended the flights of stairs to her rooms.
    â€œI’ll just have a look.”
    â€œYes, do.” Her hands went up to her face, as if even Jury’s glancing out of the tiny front window might endanger them both. Opposite her door was a window, level with the top step and the pavement. “There’s nobody there, Mrs. Wasserman.” Jury knew there wouldn’t be.
    It happened about every two months. At first Jury had tried to convince her of the truth: there was nobody there. Mrs. Wasserman spent a lot of time watching the feet on the pavement, the bodiless feet and legs passing by her windows. It was the one pair of feet, of shoes, she had fixed on and claimed came back and back again to harass her. Stopping. Waiting. She was terrified of The Feet.
    Jury had tried to convince her The Feet weren’t there, that He wasn’t there, until it had at last come home to him that he was upsetting her more. She needed to believe it. So over the past year, Jury had helped her make her flat as impregnable as a fortress: heavier grillwork, deadbolt locks, chains, burglar alarms. But still, without fail, she’d be up at his door. Each time he did something — another lock, another alarm, maybe — and each time she was flooded with relief. He assured her that someone could ransack New Scotland Yard before they couldget into the Wasserman flat, and she thought that