You said you make sure to know what you want to know. Well, Dr. Ostrow thinks it's possible that this man did have blood on his hands, and he wants to 4 Please Pass the Guilt know if he can and should be helped. I admit I do too. I've dealt with people in crises myself, any doctor has, but this is a new one to me." Wolfe looked at the wall clock. Twenty minutes to seven. "Will you dine with us? Shad roe Creole. Fritz uses shallots instead of onion and no cayenne. Chablis, not sherry." Vollmer smiled, broad. "Knowing how few people get invited to your table, I should beam. But I know it's only compassion for my--" "I am not compassionate." "Hah. You think my meals are like the one Johnson described to Boswell: 'ill-killed, ill-dressed, ill-cooked, and illserved,' and you feel sorry for me. Thank you, but I have things to do before I eat. If I could come tomorrow and bring that man . . ." Wolfe made a face. "Not for dinner. I suppose he'll see Dr. Ostrow tomorrow, or telephone. If he does, tell him to come tomorrow evening at nine o'clock. There will be no fee. And no compassion." 2 that was Tuesday, the third of June. The next morning there was a little problem. When we haven't got a job or jobs going, I usually get out for a walk after breakfast, with or without an excuse like a trip to the bank, but that Wednesday I didn't. I don't know if I have ever mentioned that the three employes of the Midtown Home Service Corporation who come once a week are always male because Wolfe insists on it. That Wednesday Andy and Sam came at nine o'clock as usual, but they had a woman along, a husky coal-black female with shoulders nearly as broad as mine. Andy, who was white but broadminded, explained that it was tougher than ever to get men, and repeated one of his favorite remarks, "Goddam it, TV men and carpet layers work in homes." He called the woman Lucile and started her on the dining room, across the hall from the office on the ground floor of the old brownstone.