"I don't know," said the police reporter. "I'll mention it at Headquarters."
"It isn't easy to spot. The stuff is pretty abstract, and a casual glance wouldn't tell anything."
"Then the vandal must have been someone who digs modem art," said Kendall. "Some kind of nut who hated his mother."
"That narrows it down," said Arch. Qwilleran was in his element - on the fringe of the police beat where he had learned the newspaper craft. His face had a glow. Even his moustache looked happy.
Three corned beef sandwiches came to the table with a plastic squeeze bottle, and the newsmen concentrated on applying mustard, each in his fashion: Arch squirting it on the rye bread in concentric circles, Kendall limning a precise zigzag, and Qwilleran squeezing out a reckless abstraction.
After a while Kendall said to him, "Know much about Lambreth?"
"I just met him once. He was sort of a stuffed shirt."
"Was the gallery successful?"
"Hard to say. It was sumptuously furnished, but that doesn't prove anything. Some of the paintings were priced in five figures, although I wouldn't give you five cents for them. I imagine investors were buying this kind of art; that's why Lambreth set up shop in the financial district."
"Maybe some sucker thought he'd been taken and got into a fatal argument with the dealer."
"That doesn't fit in with the nature of the vandalism." Arch said, "Do you think the choice of weapon indicates anything?"
..."It was a chisel from the workbench," said Kendall.
"Either the killer seized on that in a moment of passion, or he knew in advance it would be there for the purpose.
"Who was employed in the workroom?"
"I don't think anyone was employed," said Qwilleran. "I suspect Lambreth made the frames himself-in spite of the fancy front he put on for customers. When I was there, I noticed definite evidence of work in progress - but no workman. And when I asked who made the frames, he gave me an evasive answer. Then I noticed that his hands were grimy - you know, stained and battered as if he did manual labor."
"Then maybe the gallery wasn't too successful, and he was cutting comers."
"On the other hand, he was living in a good neighborhood, and his house appeared to be furnished expensively.
Kendall said, "I wonder if Lambreth admitted the killer to the premises after hours. Or did the killer let himself in the back way - with a key?"
"I'm sure it was someone Lambreth knew," Qwilleran said, "and I think the evidence of a struggle was rigged after the murder."
"How do you figure that?"
"From the position of the body. Lambreth seemed to have gone down between his swivel chair and his desk, as if he had been sitting there when the murderer took him by surprise. He wouldn't engage in a brawl and then go and sit at his desk, waiting to be polished off."
"Well, let the police solve it," said Arch. "We've got work to do."
As the men left the lunch table, the bartender beckoned to Qwilleran. "I read about the Lambreth murder," he said and paused significantly before adding, "I know that gallery."
"You do? What do you know about it?"
"Lambreth was a crook."
"What makes you think so?"
Bruno gave a hasty glance up and down the bar. "I know a lot of painters and sculptors, and anyone of them can tell you how Lambreth operated. He'd sell something for $800 and give the artist a measly $150."
"You think one of your pals wiped him out?"
Bruno was suitably indignant. "I wasn't saying anything like that. I just thought you'd like to know what kind of a guy he was."
"Well, thanks."
"And his wife isn't much better." "What do you mean by that?"
The bartender picked up a towel and wiped the bar where it didn't need wiping. "Everybody knows she's been playing around. You've got to hand it to her, though. She tiddley-winks where it'll do the most good."
"Like where?"
"Like upstairs over where you live. I understand it's quite a cozy apartment up there." Bruno stopped wiping the bar and gave Qwilleran a significant look. "She goes up there to paint the cat!"
Qwilleran shrugged a no-comment and started to leave.
Bruno called him back. "Something else, too, Mr. Qwilleran," he said. "I heard about some funny business at the museum. There's a valuable art object missing, and they're hushing it up."
"Why would they hush it up?"
"Who knows? A lot of funny things go on at that place."
"What's missing?"
" A dagger - from the Florentine Room! This friend of mine - he's a guard at the museum - he discovered the dagger was missing and reported it, but nobody wants to do anything about it. I thought it might be a scoop for you.
"Thanks. I'll look into it," said Qwilleran. Some of his best tips had come from Press Club bartenders. Also some of the worst.
On the way out of the building he stopped in the lobby where the ladies of the press were running a benefit sale of secondhand books. For a half, dollar he picked up a copy of Keeping Your Pet Happy. He also bought A Study of Crests and Troughs in American Business from 1800 to 1850 for a dime.
Back at the office he telephoned the Lambreth home.
Butchy answered and said no, Zoe couldn't come to the phone... yes, she had managed to get some sleep... no, there was nothing Qwilleran could do.
He finished his afternoon's work and went home with his coat collar turned up against the snow that had started to fall. He thought he would feed the cat, go out and grab a hamburger somewhere, and then wander over to the art museum to look at the Florentine Room. It was Thursday, and the museum was open late.
When he arrived at No. 26, shaking the snow from his shoulders and stamping his feet, he found Koko waiting for him. The cat greeted him in the front hall - not with a noisy bill of complaints this time but an appreciative squeak. The way his whiskers tilted upward gave him a pleasant look of expectancy. The newsman felt flattered.
"Hello, old fellow," he said. "Did you have an eventful day?"
From Koko's noncommittal murmur, Qwilleran decided the cat's day had been somewhat less interesting than his own. He started upstairs to carve the tenderloin - or whatever one called the cut of beef that Mountclemens supplied for catfood - and noted that Koko did not bound ahead of him. Instead the cat was dogging his heels and getting between his ankles as he climbed the stairs.
"What are you trying to do? Trip me?" Qwilleran said. He prepared the beef according to official instructions, placed the dish on the floor, and sat down to watch Koko eat. He was beginning to appreciate the fine points of Siamese design - the elegant proportions of the body, the undulating muscles beneath the fine coat, and the exquisite shading of the fur from off-white to pale fawn to the darkest of velvety browns. Qwilleran decided it was the finest shade of brown he had ever seen.
To his surprise, the cat showed no interest in food. He wanted to rub ankles and utter plaintive high-pitched mews.
"What's the matter with you?" said Qwilleran. "You're a hard one to figure out."
The cat looked up with a beseeching expression in his blue eyes, purred loudly, and raised one paw to Qwilleran's knee.
"Koko, I'll bet you're lonesome. You're used to having someone. around all day. Are you feeling neglected?"
He lifted the willing bundle of warm fur to his shoulder, and Koko purred in his ear with a rasping undertone that denoted extreme satisfaction.
"I think I'll stay home tonight," Qwilleran told the cat. "Weather's bad. Snow's getting deep. Left my rubbers at the office.
Scrounging for something to eat, he helped himself to a slice of Koko's pƒt‚ de la maison. It was the best meat loaf he had ever tasted. Koko sensed that this was a party and began to race from one end of the apartment to the other. He seemed to be flying low over the carpet, his feet moving but never touching the floor - up over the desk in a single leap, then from chair to bookshelf to table to another chair to cabinet top - all with bewildering speed. Qwilleran began to realize why there were no table lamps in the apartment.
He too wandered around - at a more leisurely rate. He opened a door in the long narrow hall and found a bedroom with a four-poster bed that had red velvet side curtains and a canopy. In the bathroom he found a green flask labeled Essence of Lime; he took a sniff and recognized the scent. In the living room he strolled with his hands in his pants pockets, enjoying a close inspection of Mountclemens' treasures; engraved brass labels on the picture frames said Hals, Gauguin, Eakins.
So this was a love nest, according to Bruno. Qwilleran had to agree it was well equipped for the purpose: dim lights, soft music, candles, wine, big loungy chairs - everything to induce a mellow mood.
And now Earl Lambreth was dead! Qwilleran blew through his moustache as he considered the possibilities. It was not difficult to visualize Mountclemens as a wife, stealer. The critic had a suave charm that would appeal to any woman he chose to impress - and an authority that would never take no for an answer. Wife-stealer, yes. Murderer, no. Mountclemens was too elegant, too fastidious for that.
Eventually Qwilleran returned to his own apartment, followed by a genial Koko. For the cat's amusement, Qwilleran tied a wad of folded paper to a length of string and dangled it. At nine o'clock the final edition of the Daily Fluxion was delivered, and Koko perused the head, lines. When the newsman finally settled down in an easy chair with a book, the cat took possession of his lap, the silky fur testifying to a state of contentment. It was with apparent reluctance that Koko took leave at mid, night and went upstairs to his cushion on top of the refrigerator.
Qwilleran described his evening of cat-sitting the next day when he stopped at Arch Riker's desk to pick up his paycheck.
Arch said, "How are you hitting it off with the critic's cat?"
"Koko was lonesome last night, so I stayed home and entertained him. We played Sparrow."
"Is this some parlor game I'm not familiar with?"
"It's something we invented - like tennis, with one player and no net," said Qwilleran. "I make a sparrow out of paper and tie it to a piece of string. Then I swing it back and forth while Koko bats it with his paw. He's got a substantial backhand, I want you to know. Every time he connects, he gets one point. If he strikes and misses, that's a point for me. Twenty-one points is game. I'm keeping a running score. After five games last night it was Koko 108 and Qwilleran 92."
"I'm betting on the cat all the way," said Arch. He reached for a sheet of pink paper. "I know that cat consumes a lot of your time, attention, and physical strength, but I wish you'd give me some action on that Halapay profile. Another pink memo came up this morning."
"I'll be all set as soon as I have one more meeting with Mrs. Halapay," said Qwilleran.
Returning to his desk, he called Sandy and suggested lunch the following Wednesday.
"Let's make it for dinner," she suggested. "Cal is in Denmark, and I'm all alone. I'd love to go to dinner where there's a dance band. You're such a wonderful dancer." Her laughter left the sincerity of her compliment in doubt.
Be Nice to People said the slogan on his telephone, and he replied, "Sandy, I'd enjoy that very much - but not next week. I'll be working nights." The telephone said nothing about lying to people. "Let's just have lunch on Wednesday and discuss your husband's charities and civic activities. They've given me a firm deadline on this profile."
"All right," she said. "I'll pick you up, and we'll drive out somewhere. We'll have scads to talk about. I want to hear all about the Lambreth murder."
"I'm afraid I don't know much about it."
"Why, I think it's all perfectly obvious."
"What's obvious?"
"That it's a family affair." Weighted pause. "You know what was going on, don't you?"
"No, I don't."
"Well, I wouldn't want to discuss it on the phone," she said. "See you Wednesday at noon."
Qwilleran spent the morning finishing up odds and ends. He wrote a short humorous piece about a local graphics artist who had switched to watercolors after dropping a hundred-pound lithograph stone on his foot. Then he did an inspirational story about a prizewinning textile weaver who was also a high-school math teacher, author of two published novels, licensed pilot, cellist, and mother of ten. Next he considered the talented poodle who paw-painted pictures. The poodle was having a show at the humane society shelter.
Just as Qwilleran was visualizing the headline (One-Dog Exhibition of Poodle Doodles), the telephone on the desk rang. He answered, and a low, breathy voice gave him a ripple of pleasure.
