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hoped that he would be able to retire on a pension sufficient to his needs, at least if it could be augmented by the savings he and Millie had accumulated over the last thirty years, but Millie’s medical bills had virtually devoured the savings.
    When the elevator doors opened Reardon was ushered into the Van Allen apartment by a tall, middle-aged man who had the stiff, laconic manner of someone who had spent his life seeing to the trivial desires of others.
    â€œPlease sit down,” he said. “Mr. Van Allen will be with you in a moment.”
    Reardon did not have to wait long, but while he waited his eyes roamed the room. It had the appearance of absolute stability, the confidence of its owners that they could deal with any conceivable distress.
    â€œDetective Reardon?” someone said from behind him.
    Reardon stood up. “Yes.”
    â€œWallace Van Allen,” said the tall man who had just entered the room. He looked younger than the photographs Reardon had seen of him in the newspapers. He was dressed in a black three-piece suit that looked as if it had never been worn before. He thrust out his hand energetically and Reardon politely shook it.
    â€œI hear you’re one crack cop,” Mr. Van Allen said.
    â€œJust an old cop.”
    â€œThat’s not what I hear,” Mr. Van Allen said. “Please sit down, sit down.”
    Reardon sat back down on the sofa. Mr. Van Allen pulled up a chair facing him. “Terrible thing,” he said, “just terrible.” He looked at Reardon. “Psychopath, I suppose.”
    Reardon nodded. He had been examining Van Allen’s face and had only barely heard his voice.
    â€œThe killer must be a psychopath,” Mr. Van Allen repeated enthusiastically, emphasizing the word “killer.” “What else could explain such an atrocious act? He must be mentally ill. No sane person could do such a thing. Don’t you agree?”
    â€œMaybe,” Reardon said quietly.
    â€œWell, I’m given to understand that if anyone can catch the poor fellow it is you.”
    â€œWe don’t have much to go on, right now.”
    â€œNo one saw it, I suppose.”
    â€œNot that we know of.”
    Mr. Van Allen nodded his head sadly. “And no weapon either.”
    â€œHow do you know?” Reardon asked.
    Mr. Van Allen looked embarrassed. “I only assumed.”
    Reardon did not believe him. He suspected that the details of the case were being fed to Van Allen from high police officials downtown.
    â€œDo you suppose the deer suffered much?” Mr. Van Allen asked.
    A strange question, Reardon thought. “Did you see them?”
    â€œOh, no,” Mr. Van Allen said. “I don’t think I could. I suppose you know I donated those deer to the Children’s Zoo in honor of my children’s birthday. Beautiful animals. Very gentle. They were actually raised on our farm in the mountains. You should have seen them when they were young. So graceful, trotting about. I think they were my daughter’s favorite things.”
    â€œHow old is your daughter?” Reardon asked, without really knowing why.
    â€œSixteen.”
    â€œAnd your other children?”
    â€œA son. Also sixteen. Why?”
    â€œJust asking,” Reardon said.
    Mr. Van Allen leaned back in his seat, folding his hands tightly around the arms of his chair. He was suddenly staring at Reardon intently, almost fearfully, as a cautious, punctilious man might take in an unpredictable — and therefore frightening — event. It occurred to Reardon that this man had never experienced a policeman before. This adviser to mayors, senators and presidents had never descended into Reardon’s soiled, awkward, accusing world, had never in his life been suspected — officially suspected — of anything.
    Mr. Van Allen smiled and took a deep breath, but the anxiety was still in his eyes. “Yes,” he said slowly, almost