"A cosmic concept," Qwilleran agreed, "but do people really understand your ideas?"
"They wear out their brains trying, but I know, and you know, and we all know — what do we know? Nothing!"
Nino was edging closer to the newsman in his enthusiasm for this conversation, and Qwilleran backed away discreetly. He said, "Nino, you appear to be a pessimist, but doesn't your success at the Lambreth Gallery help to give you an affirmative attitude toward life?"
"Warm, wanton, wary, weak woman! I talk to her. She talks to me. We communicate."
"Did you know her husband is dead? Murdered!"
"We are all dead," said Nino. "Dead as doorknobs… Doorknobs!" he shouted and plunged into a mountain of junk in desperate search.
"Thank you for letting me see your studio," said Qwilleran, and he started toward the door. As he passed a littered shelf, a gleam of gold signaled to him, and he called back over his shoulder, "Here's a doorknob, if that's what you're hunting for."
There were two doorknobs on the shelf, and they looked like pure gold. With them were other pieces of bright metal, as well as some startling pieces of carved ivory and jade, but Qwilleran did not stop to examine them. The fumes from the heater had made his head throb, and he was making a dash for the fresh air. He wanted to go home and spend a sane, sensible, sanitary Sunday with Koko. He was becoming attached to that cat, he told himself, and he would be sorry when Mountclemens returned. He wondered if Koko really liked the cultural climate upstairs. Were the pleasures of reading headlines and sniffing old masters preferable to an exhilarating game of Sparrow? After four days of play, the score was 471 for the cat, 409 for the man.
When Qwilleran arrived home, anticipating a friendly, furry, frolicsome fuss at the door, he was disappointed. Koko was not waiting for him. He went upstairs to Mountclemens' apartment and found the door closed. He heard music within. He knocked.
There was a delay before Mountclemens, wearing a dressing gown, answered the knock.
"I see you're home," said Qwilleran. "Just wanted to be sure the cat was getting his supper."
"He has finished the entre," said Mountclemens, "and is now relishing a poached egg yolk as a savory. Thank you for taking care of him. He looks well and happy."
"We had some good times together," said Qwilleran. "We played games."
"Indeed! I have often wished he would learn mahjongg."
"Did you hear the bad news about the Lambreth Gallery?"
"If they had a fire, they deserve it," said the critic. "That loft building is a tinderbox."
"Not a fire. A murder."
"Indeed!"
"Earl Lambreth," said Qwilleran. "His wife found him dead in his office last Wednesday night. He had been stabbed."
"How untidy!" Mountclemens' voice sounded bored — or tired — and he stepped back as if preparing to close the door.
"The police have no suspects," Qwilleran went on. "Do you have any theories?"
Curtly Mountclemens said, "I am in the process of unpacking. And I am about to bathe. There is nothing further from my mind than the identity of Earl Lambreth's murderer." His tone terminated the conversation.
Qwilleran accepted the dismissal and went downstairs, pulling at his moustache and reflecting that Mountclemens had a talent for being obnoxious when it suited his whim.
Down the street at a third, rate restaurant he later scowled at a plate of meatballs, picked at a limp salad, and contemplated a cup of hot water in which floated a tea bag. Added to his irritation with his landlord was a nagging disappointment; Koko had not come to the door to greet him. He returned home unsatisfied and disgruntled.
Qwilleran was about to unlock the vestibule door when a scent of lime peel came through the keyhole, and I he was not surprised to find Mountclemens in the entrance hall.
"Oh, there you are!" said the critic amiably. "I had just come downstairs to invite you for a cup of Lapsang Souchong and some dessert. Rather laboriously I transported home a Dobos torte from a very fine Viennese bakery in New York."
The sun broke through Qwilleran's clouds, and he followed the velvet jacket and Italian pumps upstairs.
Mountclemens poured tea and described current exhibitions in New York, while Qwilleran let rich buttery chocolate melt slowly on his tongue.
"And now let us hear the gruesome details," said the critic. "I assume they are gruesome. I heard nothing about the murder in New York, where art dealers are more or less expendable…. Forgive me if I sit at my desk and open mail while you talk."
Mountclemens faced a stack of large and small envelopes and wrappered publications. Placing each envelope facedown on the desk, he rested his right hand on it, while his left hand wielded the paper knife and extracted the contents, most of which he dropped contemptuously in the wastebasket.
Qwilleran recounted the details of Lambreth's murder briefly, as it had appeared in the newspaper. "That's the story," he said. "Any guesses as to motive?"
"Personally," said Mountclemens, "I have never been able to appreciate murder for revenge. I find murder for personal gain infinitely more appealing. But what anyone could possibly gain by dispatching Earl Lambreth to the hereafter is beyond my comprehension."
"He had quite a few enemies, I understand."
"All art dealers and all art critics have enemies!" Mountclemens gave an envelope a particularly vicious rip. "The first one who comes to mind, in this case, is that indescribable Bolton woman."
"What did the lady welder have against Lambreth?"
"He robbed her of a $50,000 commission — or so she says."
"The outdoor sculpture for the shopping center?"
"Actually Lambreth did the innocent public a favor by convincing the architects to commission another sculptor. Welded metal is a fad. If we are fortunate, it will soon die — put to death by practitioners like the Bolton creature."
Qwilleran said, "Someone suggested I write a human, interest story about her."
"By all means, interview the woman," said Mountclemens, "if only for your own education. Wear tennis shoes. If she stages one of her insane tantrums, you may have to sprint for your life or dodge metal ingots."
"She sounds like a good murder suspect."
"She has the motive and the temperament. But she did not commit the crime, I can assure you. She would be in, capable of doing anything successfully — especially murder, which requires a certain amount of finesse."
Qwilleran lingered over the last few bittersweet crumbs of torte, and then he said, "I've also been wondering about the junk sculptor they call Nino. Know anything about him?"
"Brilliant, odoriferous, and harmless," said Mountclemens. "Next suspect?"
"Someone has suggested it was a family affair."
"Mrs. Lambreth has too much taste to indulge in anything as vulgar as a stabbing. A shooting, perhaps, but not a stabbing. A shooting with a dainty little cloisonn pistol — or whatever women carry in those cavernous hand, bags. I have always had the impression those handbags were stuffed with wet diapers. But surely there would be room to accommodate a dainty little pistol in cloisonn or tortoise shell inlaid with German silver —»
Qwilleran said, "Have you ever seen the portrait she painted of her husband? It's as lifelike as a photograph and not very complimentary."
"I thank the fates I have been spared that experience…. No, Mr. Qwilleran, I am afraid your murderer was no artist. The textural experience of plunging a cutting tool into flesh would be extremely repugnant to a painter. A sculptor would have a greater feeling for anatomy, but he would vent his hostilities in a manner more acceptable to society — by mauling clay, chiseling stone, or torturing metal. So you might better search for an irate customer, a desperate competitor, a psychotic art-lover, or a rejected mistress."