“Half an hour? You should have called me, Ray.”

“Been up to me, I mighta done just that. But I wasn’t in the picture until they got inside and found the body. Then I got called an’ went over, an’ I was takin’ a good look at the late laminated when the phone rang. That was you, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, tell me another. Two calls, maybe five minutes apart. Both times I answered an’ both times the other party didn’t say a word. Don’t tell me it wasn’t you, Bern. Be a waste of time. I recognized your voice.”

“How? You just said the caller didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, an’ there’s plenty ways of not sayin’ nothin’, an’ this was you. Don’t try an’ tell me different.”

“Whatever you say, Ray.”

“I knew it was you right away. Of course, I got to admit I had you on my mind. You know where the body was layin’?”

“Of course not. I wasn’t there.”

“Well, you know the little round table, has a lamp on it looks like a bowl of flowers?”

It was a Tiffany lily lamp, almost certainly a reproduction, resting atop a drumhead table with cabriolet legs. “I don’t know it at all,” I said. “I’ve never been to his apartment. I know he was on the Upper East Side, and I’ve probably got his address written down somewhere, but I can’t recall it offhand. And I’ve certainly never been there.”

“Right,” he said. “You were never there but your case here”-he gave the surface a tap-“was. I don’t buy that for a minute, Bernie. I think you were there, and probably last night. Time you called, I didn’t know this was your case. But I already seen a receipt for five bucks an’ change sittin’ on top of that little round table. Barnegat Books, it said, an’ the date on it was the day before yesterday.”

“I told you about that, Ray. He bought a book of poems.”

“It said”-he consulted a pocket notebook-“Praed.”

“That’s the name of the poet. Winthrop Mackworth Praed.”