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y；　the　rules　he'd　drawn　for　this　exchange　forgotten。　Instead　of　questioning　the　man　closely；　concealing　his　own　biography　so　that　the　other　would　have　as　little　hold　on　him　as　possible；　he　spilled　the　tragedy　in　every　unflattering　detail。　Several　times　he　almost　stopped　himself；　but　it　felt　so　good　to　be　unburdened　that　he　let　his　tongue　defy　his　better　judgment。　Not　once　did　the　other　man　interrupt　the　litany；　and　it　was　only　when　a　rapping　on　the　door；　announcing　Chant's　return；　interrupted　the　flow　that　Estabrook　remembered　there　was　anyone　else　alive　in　the　world　tonight　besides　himself　and　his　confessor。　And　by　that　time　the　tale　was　told。
　Pie　opened　the　door　but　didn't　let　Chant　in。　〃We'll　wander　over　to　the　car　when　we've　finished；〃　he　told　the　driver。　〃We　won't　be　long。〃　Then　he　closed　the　door　again　and　returned　to　the　table。　〃Something　more　to　drink？〃　he　asked。
　Estabrook　declined；　but　accepted　a　cigarette　as　they　talked　on；　Pie　requesting　details　of　Judith's　whereabouts　and　movements；　Estabrook　supplying　the　answers　in　a　monotone。　Finally；　the　issue　of　payment。　Ten　thousand　pounds；　to　be　paid　in　two　halves；　the　first　upon　agreement　of　the　contract；　the　second　after　its　pletion。
　〃Chant　has　the　money；〃　Estabrook　said。
　〃Shall　we　walk；　then？〃　Pie　said。
　Before　they　left　the　trailer；　Estabrook　looked　into　the　cot。　〃You　have　beautiful　children；〃　he　said　when　they　were　out　in　the　cold。
　〃They're　not　mine；〃　Pie　replied。　〃Their　father　died　a　year　ago　this　Christmas。〃
　〃Tragic；〃　Estabrook　said。
　〃It　was　quick；〃　Pie　said；　glancing　across　at　Estabrook　and　confirming　in　his　glance　the　suspicion　that　he　was　the　orphan　maker。　〃Are　you　quite　certain　you　want　this　woman　dead？〃　Pie　said。　〃Doubt's　bad　in　a　business　like　this。　If　there's　any　part　of　you　that　hesitates…〃
　〃There's　none；〃　Estabrook　said。　〃I　came　here　to　find　a　man　to　kill　my　wife。　You're　that　man。〃
　〃You　still　love　her；　don't　you？〃　Pie　said；　once　they　were　out　and　walking。
　〃Of　course　I　love　her；〃　Estabrook　said。　〃That's　why　I　want　her　dead。〃
　〃There's　no　Resurrection；　Mr。　Estabrook。　Not　for　you；　at　least。〃
　〃It's　not　me　who's　dying；〃　he　said。
　〃I　think　it　is；〃　came　the　reply。　They　were　at　the　fire；　now　untended。　〃A　man　kills　the　thing　he　loves；　and　he　must　die　a　little　himself。　That's　plain；　yes？〃
　〃If　I　die；　I　die；〃　was　Estabrook's　response。　〃As　long　as　she　goes　first。　I'd　like　it　done　as　quickly　as　possible。〃
　〃You　said　she's　in　New　York。　Do　you　want　me　to　follow　her　there？〃
　〃Are　you　familiar　with　the　city？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃Then　do　it　there　and　do　it　soon。　I'll　have　Chant　supply　extra　funds　to　cover　the　flight。　And　that's　that。　We　shan't　see　each　other　again。〃
　Chant　was　waiting　at　the　perimeter　and　fished　the　envelope　containing　the　payment　from　his　inside　pocket。　Pie　accepted　it　without　question　or　thanks；　then　shook　Estabrook's　hand　and　left　the　trespassers　to　return　to　the　safety　of　their　car。　As　he　settled　into　the　fort　of　the　leather　seat；　Estabrook　realized　the　palm　he'd　pressed　against　Pie's　was　trembling。　He　knitted　its　fingers　with　those　of　his　other　hand；　and　there　they　remained；　white…knuckled；　for　the　length　of　the　journey　home。
　
　
　2
　
　DO　THIS　FOR　THE　WOMEN　OF　THE　WORLD；　read　the　note　John　Furie　Zacharias　held。　Slit　your　lying　throat。
　Beside　the　note；　lying　on　the　bare　boards；　Vanessa　and　her　cohorts　（she　had　two　brothers；　it　was　probably　they　who'd　e　with　her　to　empty　the　house）　had　left　a　neat　pile　of　broken　glass；　in　case　he　was　sufficiently　moved　by　her　entreaty　to　end　his　life　there　and　then。　He　stared　at　the　note　in　something　of　a　stupor；　reading　it　over　and　over；　looking…vainly；　of　course…for　some　small　consolation　in　it。　Beneath　the　tick　and　scrawl　that　made　her　name；　the　paper　was　lightly　wrinkled。　Had　tears　fallen　there　while　she'd　written　her　goodbye；　he　wondered？　Small　fort　if　they　had；　and　a　smaller　likelihood　still。　Vanessa　was　not　one　for　crying。　Nor　could　he　imagine　a　woman　with　the　least　ambiguity　of　feeling　so　prehensively　stripping　him　of　possessions。　True；　neither　the　mews　house　nor　any　stick　of　furniture　in　it　had　been　his　by　law；　but　they　had　chosen　many　of　the　items　together…she　relying　upon　his　artist's　eye；　he　upon　her　money　to　purchase　whatever　his　gaze　admired。　Now　it　was　all　gone；　to　the　last　Persian　rug　and　Deco　lamp。　The　home　they'd　made　together；　and　enjoyed　for　a　year　and　two　months；　was　stripped　bare。　And　so　indeed　was　he：　to　the　nerve；　to　the　bone。　He　had　nothing。
　It　wasn't　calamitous。　Vanessa　hadn't　been　the　first　woman　to　indulge　his　taste　in　handmade　shirts　and　silk　waistcoats；　nor　would　she　be　the　last。　But　she　was　the　first　in　recent　memory…for　Gentle　the　past　had　a　way　of　evaporating　after　about　ten　years…who　had　conspired　to　remove　everything　from　him　in　the　space　of　half　a　day。　His　error　was　plain　enough。　He'd　woken　that　morning；　lying　beside　Vanessa　with　a　hard…on　she'd　wanted　him　to　pleasure　her　with；　and　had　stupidly　refused　her；　knowing　he　had　a　liaison　with　Marline　that　afternoon。　How　she'd　discovered　where　he　was　unloading　his　balls　was　academic。　She　had；　and　that　was　that。　He'd　stepped　out　of　the　house　at　noon；　believing　the　woman　he'd　left　was　devoted　to　him；　and　e　home　five　hours　later　to　find　the　house　as　it　was　now。　He　could　be　sentimental　at　the　strangest　times。　As　now；　for　instance；　wandering　through　the　empty　rooms；　collecting　up　the　belongings　she　had　felt　obliged　to　leave　for　him：　his　address　book；　the　clothes　he'd　bought　with　his　own　money　as　opposed　to　hers；　his　spare　spectacles；　his　cigarettes。　He　hadn't　loved　Vanessa；　but　he　had　enjoyed　the　fourteen　months　they'd　spent　together　here。　She'd　left　a　few　more　pieces　of　trash　on　the　dining　room　floor；　reminders　of　that　time：　a　cluster　of　keys　they'd　never　found　doors　to　fit；　instruction　documents　for　a　blender　he'd　burned　out　making　midnight　margaritas；　a　plastic　bottle　of　massage　oil。　All　in　all；　a　pitiful　collection；　but　he　wasn't　so　self…deceiving　as　to　believe　their　relationship　had　been　much　more　than　a　sum　of　those　parts。　The　question　was…now　that　it　was　over…where　was　he　to　go　and　what　was　he　to　do？　Martine　was　a　middle…aged　married　woman；　her　husband　a　banker　who　spent　three　days　of　every　week　in　Luxembourg；　leaving　her　time　to　philander。　She　professed　love　for　Gentle　at　intervals；　but　not　with　sufficient　consistency　to　make　him　think　he　could　prize　her　from　her　husband；　even　if　he　wanted　to；　which　he　was　by　no　means　certain　he　did。　He'd　known　her　eight　months…met　her；　in　fact；　at　a　dinner　party　hosted　by　Vanessa's　elder　brother；　William…and　they　had　only　argued　once；　but　it　had　been　a　telling　exchange。　She'd　accused　him　of　always　looking　at　other　women；　looking；　looking；　as　though　for　the　next　conquest。　Perhaps　because　he　didn't　care　for　her　too　much；　he'd　replied　honestly　and　told　her　she　was　right。　He　was　stupid　for　her　sex。　Sickened　in　their　absence；　blissful　in　their　pany：　love's　fool。　She'd　replied　that　while　his　obsession　might　be　healthier　than　her　husband's…which　was　money　and　its　manipulation…his　behavior　was　still　neurotic。　Why　this　endless　hunt？　she'd　asked　him。　He'd　answered　with　some　folderol　about　seeking　the　ideal　woman；　but　he'd　known　the　truth　even　as　he　was　spinning　her　this　tosh；　and　it　was　a　bitter　thing。　Too　bitter；　in　fact；　to　be　put　on　his　tongue。　In　essence；　it　came　down　to　this：　he　felt　meaningless；　empty；　almost　invisible　unless　one　or　more　of　her　sex　were　doting　on　him。　Yes；　he　knew　his　face　was　finely　made；　his　forehead　broad；　his　gaze　haunting；　his　lips　sculpted　so　that　even　a　sneer　looked　fetching　on　them；　but　he　needed　a　living　mirror　to　tell　him　so。　More；　he　lived　in　hope　that　one　such　mirror　would　find　something　behind　his　looks　only　another　pair　of　eyes　could　see：　some　undiscovered　self　that　would　free　him　from　being　Gentle。
　As　always　when　he　felt　deserted；　he　went　to　see　Chester　Klein；　patron　of　the　arts　by　diverse　hands；　a　man　who　claimed　to　have　been　excised　by　fretful　lawyers　from　more　biographies　than　any　other　man　since　Byron。　He　lived　in　Notting　Hill　Gate；　in　a　house　he'd　bought　cheaply　in　the　late　fifties；　which　he　now　seldom　left；　touched　as　he　was　by　agoraphobia　or；　as　he　preferred　it；　〃a　perfectly　rational　fear　of　anyone　I　can't　blackmail。〃
　From　this　small　dukedom　he　managed　to　prosper；　employed　as　he　was　in　a　business　which　required　a　few　choice　contacts；　a　nose　for　the　changing　taste　of　his　market；　and　an　ability　to　conceal　his　pleasure　at　his　achievements。　In　short；　he　dealt　in　fakes；　and　it　was　this　latter　quality　he　was　most　deficient　in。　There　were　those　among　his　small　circle　of　intimates　who　said　it　would　be　his　undoing；　but　they　or　their　predecessors　had　been　prophesying　the　same　for　three　decades；　and　Klein　had　outprospered　every　one　of　them。　The　luminaries　he'd　entertained　over　the　decades…the　defecting　dancers　and　minor　spies；　the　addicted　debutantes；　the　rock　stars　with　messianic　leanings；　the　bishops　who　made　idols　of　barrow　boys…they'd　all　had　their　moments　of　glory；　then　fallen。　But　Klein　went　on　to　tell　the　tale。　And　when；　on　occasion；　his　name　did　creep　into　a　scandal　sheet　or　a　confessional　biography；　he　was　invariably　painted　as　the　patron　saint　of　lost　souls。
　It　wasn't　only　the　knowledge　that；　being　such　a　soul；　Gentle　would　be　weled　at　the　Klein　residence；　that　took　him　there。　He'd　never　known　a　time　when　Klein　didn't　need　money　for　some　gambit　or　other；　and　that　meant　he　needed　painters。　There　was　more　than　fort　to　be　found　in　the　house　at　Ladbroke　Grove；　there　was　employment。　It　had　been　eleven　months　since　he'd　seen　or　spoken　to　Chester；　but　he　was　greeted　as　effusively　as　ever　and　ushered　in。
　〃Quickly！　Quickly！〃　Klein　said。　〃Gloriana's　in　heat　again！〃　He　managed　to　slam　the　door　before　the　obese　Gloriana；　one　of　his　five　cats；　escaped　in　search　of　a　mate。　〃Too　slow；　sweetie！〃　he　told　her。　She　yowled　at　him　in　plaint。　〃I　keep　her　fat　so　she's　slow；〃　he　said。　〃And　I　don't　feel　so　piggy　myself。〃
　He　patted　a　paunch　that　had　swelled　considerably　since　Gentle　had　last　seen　him　and　was　testing　the　seams　of　his　shirt；　which；　like　him；　was　florid　and　had　seen　better　years。　He　still　wore　his　hair　in　a　ponytail；　plete　with　ribbon；　and　wore　an　ankh　on　a　chain　around　his　neck；　but　beneath　the　veneer　of　a　harmless　flower　child　go