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“Well, I’m sorry he was,” Wohl said. “But it was a vicious circle, the more pissed he got at her, the more pissed she got at him. I had to break it, and that seemed to be the best way to do it. The whole department would have paid for it for a long time.”

“I think maybe he was pissed because he knew his ass was showing,” Harris said. “You can’t push a dame like that around. She file a complaint?”

“No,” Wohl said.

Harris shrugged.

“Did Captain Quaire say anything to you about me?” Wohl asked.

“He said it came from upstairs that you were to be in on it,” Harris said.

“I’ve been temporarily transferred to the Charm Squad,” Wohl said. “I’m to keep Miss Dutton happy, and to report daily to Mr. Nelson’s father on the progress of your investigation.”

Harris chuckled.

“What have you got, Tony?”

“He was a fag, I guess you know?”

“I met him,” Wohl said.

“I want to talk to his boyfriend,” Harris said. “We’re looking for him. Very large black guy, big enough, strong enough, to cut up Nelson the way he was. His name, we think, is Pierre St. Maury. His birth certificate probably says John Jones, but that’s what he called himself.”

“You think he’s the doer?”

“That’s where I am now,” Harris said. “The rent-a-cops told me that he spent the night here a lot; drove Nelson’s car—cars—and probably had a key. There are no signs of forcible entry. And there’s a burglar alarm. One of Nelson’s cars is missing. A Jaguar, by the way, Inspector,” Harris said, a naughty look in his eyes. “I put the Jag in NCIC.”

The FBI’s National Crime Information Center operated a massive computer listing details of crimes nationwide. If the Jaguar was found somewhere, or even stopped for a traffic violation, the information that it was connected with a crime in Philadelphia would be immediately available to the police officers involved.

“Screw you, Tony,” Wohl said, and laughed.

“A new one,” Harris went on. “An ‘XJ6’?”

“Four-door sedan,” Wohl furnished. “A work of art. Twenty-five, thirty thousand dollars.”

Harris’s face registered surprise at the price.

“Police radio is broadcasting the description every half hour,” he went on. “I also ordered a subsector search. Nelson’s other car is a Ford Fairlane convertible. That’s in the garage.”

“Lover’s quarrel?” Wohl asked.

Harris held both palms upward in front of him, and made a gesture, like a scale in balance.

“Maybe,” he said. “That would explain what he did to the victim. I think we have the weapons. They used one of those Chinese knives, you know, looks like a cleaver, but sharp as a razor?”

Wohl nodded.

“And another knife, a regular one, a butcher knife with a bone handle, which is probably what he used to stab him.”

“You said ‘maybe,’ Tony,” Wohl said.

“I’m just guessing, Inspector,” Harris said.

“Go ahead,” Wohl said.

“There was a lot of stuff stolen, or I think so. There’s no jewelry to speak of in the apartment. . . some ordinary cuff links, tie clasps, but nothing worth any money. The victim wore rings, they’re gone, we know that. No money in the wallet, or anywhere else that anybody could find. He probably had a watch, or watches, and there’s none in there. And there was marks on the bedside table, probably a portable TV, that’s gone.”

“Leading up to what?”