"Okay…. Where are you headed now?"

"Back to the Lab."

"If it isn't out of your way, would you drop me at my apartment?"

"No sweat."

Qwilleran looked at his wristwatch in the glow from the instrument panel. "It's ten-thirty!" he said. "And I forgot to feed the cat."

"A-hah! A-hah!" said Odd. "I told you Monty wanted you for a cat-sitter." A few minutes later, when he turned the car into Blenheim Place, he said, "Doesn't this neighborhood scare the hell out of you? The characters you see on the streets!"

"They don't bother me," said Qwilleran.

"You wouldn't get me to live here! I'm a coward."

A folded newspaper lay on the porch of No. 26. Qwilleran picked it up, unlocked the front door, and closed it quickly behind him, glad to get in out of the cold. He rattled the door handle to make sure it was locked again — as Mountclemens had warned him to do.

Using a second key, he unlocked the inner vestibule door. And that's when he recoiled in black fright!

Out of the dark came a wild scream. Qwilleran's mind went blank. The hairs of his moustache stood on end. His heart pounded. Instinctively he gripped the newspaper like a club.

Then he realized the source of the scream. Koko was waiting for him. Koko was scolding him. Koko was hungry. Koko was furious.

Qwilleran leaned against the doorjamb and gasped. He loosened his tie.

"Never do that again!" he told the cat.

Koko was sitting on the table that was supported by golden lions, and he retorted with a torrent of abuse.

"All right! All right!" Qwilleran yelled at him. "I apologize. I forgot, that's all. Important business downtown."

Koko continued his tirade.

"Wait till I take my coat off, will you?"

Once Qwilleran started upstairs, the tumult ceased. The cat bounded ahead and led him into Mountclemens' apartment, which was in darkness. Qwilleran groped for a light switch. This delay irritated Koko, who commenced another vocal demonstration. Now the piercing cries had gravel-throated undertones signifying menace.

"I'm coming. I'm coming," said Qwilleran, following the cat down the long narrow hall to the kitchen. Koko led him directly to the refrigerator, where there was a chunk of beef waiting in a glass tray. It looked like a whole tenderloin.

Qwilleran put the meat on a built-in butcher's block and hunted for a sharp knife.

"Where does he keep his knives?" he said, pulling open one drawer after another.

Koko leaped lightly to the adjoining counter and nosed a knife rack, where five handsome blades hung point downward on a magnetized bar.

"Thanks," said Qwilleran. He started to carve the beef, marveling at the quality of the cutlery. Real chef's knives. They made meat-cutting a pleasure. How did Mountclemens say to cut the beef? The size of a kidney bean or the size of a navy bean? And how about the broth? He said to warm it in broth. Where was the broth?

The cat was sitting on the counter, supervising every move with what appeared to be an impatient scowl.

Qwilleran said, "How about eating it raw, old man? Since it's so late —»

Koko gargled a low note in his throat, which Qwilleran assumed was acquiescence. In a cupboard he found a plate — white porcelain with a wide gold band. He arranged the meat on it — attractively, he thought — and placed it on the floor alongside a ceramic water bowl decorated with the word «cat» in three languages.

Koko jumped to the floor with a grunt, walked to the plate, and examined the beef. Then he looked up at Qwilleran with incredulity displayed in the tilt of his ears.

"Go ahead. Eat," said Qwilleran. "Enjoy it in good health."

Koko lowered his head once more. He sniffed. He touched the beef with his paw and gave a perceptible shudder. He shook his paw fastidiously and walked away, his tail pointed stiffly toward the North Star.

Later, after Qwilleran had found some thin gravy in the refrigerator and prepared the meal properly, Kao K'o Kung consented to dine.

The newsman related the experience at the Press Club the following noon when he had lunch with Arch Riker and Lodge Kendall.

"But this morning I acquitted myself admirably," said Qwilleran. "Koko got me up at six, thirty by yelling outside my door, and I went up and prepared breakfast to his satisfaction. I think he's going to let me keep the job until Mountclemens comes home."

The police reporter was young, tense, earnest, literal, and unsmiling. He said, "Do you mean to say you let a cat boss you around?"

"Actually, I feel sorry for him. Poor little rich cat! Nothing but tenderloin and p?te de la maison. I wish I could catch him a mouse."

Arch explained to Kendall, "You see, this is a Siamese, descended from an Egyptian god. It not only communicates and runs the show; it reads newspaper headlines. A cat that can read is obviously superior to a newspaperman who can't catch mice."

Qwilleran said, "He flies, too. When he wants to get to the top of a seven-foot bookcase, he just puts his ears back and zooms up like a jet. No wings. He's got some kind of aerodynamic principle that ordinary cats don't have."

Kendall regarded the two older men with wonder and suspicion.

"After Koko got me up at six-thirty," said Qwilleran, "I started thinking about the Lambreth murder. Any developments, Lodge?"

"Nothing released this morning."

"Have they reached any conclusions about the vandalism?"

"Not that I've heard."

"Well, I observed something last night that looks interesting. All four items that were damaged were portrayals of the female figure, more or less unclothed. Did the police notice that?"

"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.