"It's too bad, yes, I hate to go alone. You know, I love to talk film, to discuss, to critique' He was staring out the window, gaze averted to the side and away from the priest.

Karras nodded silently, looking down at his large and very powerful hands. They were clasped between his legs. A moment passed. Then Kinderman hesitantly turned with a wistful look.

"Would you like to see a film with me sometime, Father? It's free... I get passes," he added quickly.

The priest looked at him, grinning. "As Elwood P. Dowd used to say in Harvey, Lieutenant.

When?"

"Oh, I'll call you, I'll call you!" The detective beam eagerly.

They'd come to the residence hall and parked. Karras put a hand on the door and clicked it open

"Please do. Look, I'm sorry that I wasn't much help."

"Never mind, you were help." Kinderman waved limply. Karras was climbing out of the car.

"In fact, for a Jew who's trying to pass, you're a very nice man."

Karras turned, closed the door and leaned into the window with a faint, warm smile "Do people ever tell you you look like Paul Newman?"

"Always. And believe me, inside this body, Mr. Newman is struggling to get out. Too crowded. Inside," he said, "is also Clark Gable." Karras waved with a grin and started away.

"Father, wait!"

Karras turned. The detective was squeezing out of the car.

"Listen, Father, I forgot," he puffed, approaching "Slipped my mind. You know, that card with the dirty writing on it? The one that was found in the church?"

"You mean the altar card?"

"Whatever. It's still around?"

"Yes, I've got it in my room. I was checking the Latin. You want it?"

"Yes, maybe it shows something. Maybe."

"Just a second, I'll get it."

While Kinderman waited outside by the squad car, the Jesuit went to his ground-floor room facing out on Prospect Street and found the card. He came outside again and gave it to Kinderman.

"Maybe some fingerprints," Kinderman wheezed as he looked it over. Then, "No, wait, you've been handling it," he seemed to realize quickly. "Good thinking. Before you, the Jewish Mr.

Moto." He was fumbling at the card's clear plastic sheath. "Ah, no, wait, it comes out, it comes out, it comes out!" Then he glanced up at Karras with incipient dismay. "You've been handling the inside as well, Kirk Douglas?" Karras grinned ruefully, nodding his head.

"Never mind, maybe still we could find something else. Incidentally, you studied this?"

"Yes, I did."

'Your conclusion?"

Karras shrugged "Doesn't look like the work of a prankster At first, I thought maybe a student But I doubt it. Whoever did that thing is pretty deeply disturbed."

"As you said."

"And the Latin..." Karras brooded. "It's not just flawless, Lieutenant, it's--- well, it's got a definite style that's very individual. It's as if whoever did it's used to thinking in Latin."

"Do priests?"

"Oh, come on, now!"

"Just answer the question, please, Father Paranoia."

"Well, yes; at a point in their training, they do. At least, Jesuits and some of the other orders.

At Woodstock Seminary, certain philosophy courses were taught in Latin."

"How so?"

"For precision of thought. It's like law."

"Ah, I see."

Karras suddenly looked earnest, grave. "Look, Lieutenant, can I tell you who I really think did it?"

The detective leaned closer. "No, who?"

"Dominicans. Go pick on them."

Karras smiled, waved good-bye and walked away.

"I lied!" the detective called after him sullenly. "You look like Sal Mineo!"

Kinderman watched as the priest gave another little wave and entered the residence hall, then he turned and got into the squad car. He wheezed, sitting motionless, staring at the floorboard.

"He hums, he hums, that man," he murmured. "Just like a tuning fork under the water." For a moment longer he held the look; and then turned and told the driver, "All right, back to headquarters. Hurry. Break laws." They pulled away.

**********

Karras' new room was simply furnished: a single bed, a comfortable chair, a desk and bookshelves built into the wall. On the desk was an early photo of his mother, and in silent rebuke on the wall by his bed hung a metal crucifix.

The narrow room way world enough for him. He cared little for possessions; only that those he had be clean.

He showered, scrubbing briskly, then slipped on khaki pants and a T-shirt and ambled to dinner in the priests' refectory, where he spotted pink-cheeked Dyer sitting alone at a table in a corner.

He moved to join him.

"Hi, Damien," said Dyer. The young priest was wearing a faded Snoopy sweatshirt.