"Maybe he doesn't own one, but he drives one some, times."

"How do you suppose he manages?"

"No sweat. Automatic transmission. Didn't you ever do any one-arm driving? You must be a lousy lover. I used to drive with one arm, shift gears, and eat a hot dog all at the same time."

"I've got a few questions, too," Qwilleran said. "Are the local artists as bad as Mountclemens says? Or is he as phony as the artists think? Mountclemens says Halapay is a charlatan. Halapay says Zoe Lambreth's paintings are a hoax. Zoe says Sandy Halapay is uninformed. Sandy says Mountclemens is irresponsible. Mountclemens says Farhar is incompetent. Farhar says Mountclemens knows nothing about art. Mountclemens says Earl Lambreth is pathetic. Lambreth says Mountclemens is a monument of taste, truth, and integrity. So… who's on first?"

"Listen!" said Odd. "I think they're paging me."

The voice mumbling over the public-address system could hardly be heard above the hubbub in the bar.

"Yep, that's for me," the photographer said. "Somebody must have blown up the City Hall."

He went to the telephone, and Qwilleran pondered the complexities of the art beat.

When Odd Bunsen returned from the telephone booth, he was taut with excitement.

Qwilleran thought, A press photographer for fifteen years, and he still lights up when there's a three-alarm fire.

"I've got news for you," said Odd, leaning over the table and keeping his voice down.

"What is it?"

"Trouble on your beat."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Homicide! I'm on my way to the Lambreth Gallery."

"The Lambreth!" Qwilleran stood up fast enough to knock over his chair. "Who is it?… Not Zoe!"

"No. Her husband."

"Know what happened?"

"They said he was stabbed. Want to come with me? I told the desk you were here, and they said it would be good if you could cover it. Kendall's out on a story, and both leg men are busy."

"Okay, I'll go."

"Better phone them back and say so. I've got my car outside."

When Qwilleran and Bunsen arrived in front of the Lambreth Gallery, there was an unwarranted calm in the street. The financial district was normally deserted after five-thirty, and even a murder had failed to draw much of a crowd. A sharp wind whipped down the canyon created by nearby office buildings, and only a few shivering stragglers stood about on the sidewalk, but they soon moved on. A loneliness filled the street. Isolated voices sounded unreasonably loud.

The newsmen identified themselves to the patrolman at the door. Inside, the expensive art and plush furnishings made an unlikely background for the assortment of uninvited guests. A police photographer was taking pictures of some paintings that had been viciously slashed. Bunsen pointed out the precinct inspector and Hames, a detective from the Homicide Bureau. Hames nodded at them and jerked a thumb upstairs.

The newsmen started up the spiral staircase at the rear and then backed away to let a fingerprint man come down. He was talking to himself. He was saying, "How can they get a stretcher down this thing? They'll have to take him out the window."

Upstairs a sharp voice was saying, "Come on, you fellows. You can take care of that downstairs. Let's thin out."

"That's Wojcik from Homicide," said Bunsen. "No fooling around with him."

The framing shop was approximately as Qwilleran remembered it — except for the men with badges, cameras, and notebooks. A patrolman stood in the doorway to Lambreth's office, facing out. Over his shoulder Qwilleran could see that the office had been fairly well wrecked. The body lay on the floor near the desk.

He got Wojcik's attention and flipped open a small notebook. "Murderer known?"

"No," said the detective.

"Victim: Earl Lambreth, director of the gallery?" "Right."

"Method?"

"Stabbed with a tool from the workbench. A sharp chisel."

"Where?"

"Throat. A very wet job."

"Body discovered where?"

"In his office."

"By whom?"

"Victim's wife, Zoe."

Qwilleran took a second to gulp and grimace.

"That's spelled Z-o-e," said the detective. "I know. Any sign of a struggle?"

"Office practically turned upside down."

"What about the vandalism in the gallery?"

"Several pictures damaged. A statue broken. You can see that downstairs."

"What time did it happen?"

"The electric clock-knocked off the desk-stopped at six-fifteen."

"The gallery was closed at that time."

"Right."

"Any evidence of forcible breaking and entering?"

"No."

"Then the murderer could have been someone who had legitimate access to the place."

"Could be. We found the front door locked. The alley door may or may not have been locked when Mrs. Lambreth arrived."

"Anything stolen?"

"Not immediately apparent." Wojcik started to move away. That's all. You've got the story."

"One more question. Any suspects?"

"No."

Downstairs, while Bunsen scrambled around taking pictures, Qwilleran studied the nature of the vandalism. Two oil paintings had been ripped diagonally by a sharp instrument. A framed picture lay on the floor with its glass broken, as if a heel had been put through it. A reddish clay sculpture appeared to have been bounced off a marble-top table; there were scattered fragments.

Paintings by Zoe Lambreth and Scrano — the only two names that registered with Qwilleran — were unharmed.

He remembered the sculpture from his previous visit. The elongated shape with random swellings had apparently been a woman's figure. Its label, still affixed to the empty pedestal, said "Eve by B. H. Riggs — terra cotta."

The watercolor on the floor was one Qwilleran had not noticed the week before. It resembled a jigsaw puzzle of many colors — just a pleasing pattern. It was titled "Interior," and the artist's name was Mary Ore. The label called it a gouache.

Then Qwilleran examined the two oils. Both were composed of wavy vertical stripes of color, applied on a white background with a wide brush. The colors were violent-red, purple, orange, pink-and the paintings seemed to vibrate like a plucked string. Qwilleran wondered who would buy these nerve, racking works of art. He preferred his second-rate Monet.

Stepping closer to check the labels, he noted that one was "Beach Scene #3 by Milton Ore — oil," while the other was "Beach Scene #2" by the same artist. In a way the titles were a help in appreciating the pictures. They began to remind Qwilleran of shimmering heat waves rising from hot sand.

He said to Bunsen, "Look at these two pictures. Would you say they were beach scenes?"

"I'd say the artist was drunk," said Odd.

Qwilleran moved back a few paces and squinted at the two oils. Suddenly he saw a crowd of standing figures. He had been looking at the red, orange, and purple stripes, and he should have been seeing the white voids between them. The vertical stripes of white suggested the contours of female bodies — abstract but recognizable.

He thought, Women's figures in those white stripes… a woman's torso in the broken clay. Let's have another look at the watercolor.

When he knew what he was searching for, it was not hard to find. In the jagged wedges of color that made up the pattern of Mary Ore's work, he could distinguish a window, a chair, a bed — on which reclined a human figure. Female.

He said to Odd Bunsen, "I'd like to go out to the Lambreth house and see if Zoe will talk to me. Also, she might have a photograph of the deceased. Shall we check with the desk?"

After phoning the details to a rewrite man and getting a go-ahead from the City Desk, Qwilleran folded himself into Odd Bunsen's cramped two-seater, and they drove to 3434 Sampler Street.

The Lambreth home was a contemporary town house in a new neighborhood — self-consciously well designed — that had replaced a former slum. The newsmen rang the doorbell and waited. Draperies were drawn to cover the large windows, but it could be seen that lights were burning in every room, upstairs and downstairs. They rang the bell again.