"I'd like to know what that cat knows."

Qwilleran said, "I'd like to know what Mountclemens was doing in the patio on a cold winter night — in his velvet house jacket. That's what he was wearing — and a glove on his good hand. Yet he had taken his topcoat with him. There was a British tweed lying on the bricks in a comer of the patio. They assume it was his — right size, New York label, and a shoulder cape! Who else would wear a cape?"

"Exactly where did you find the body?"

"In a comer of the yard, close to the gate that leads into the alley. It looked as if he'd had his back to the brick wall — the side wall, that is — when someone plunged the knife into his gut."

"It went into the abdominal aorta," said Lodge. "He didn't have a chance."

"Now we've got to find a new art critic," said Arch. "Do you want the job, Jim?"

"Who? Me? Are you crazy?"

"That gives me an idea," Lodge said. "Was there anyone in town who wanted to get Mountclemens' job for himself?"

"It doesn't pay enough to be worth the risk of a murder rap."

"But it has prestige," said Qwilleran, "and some art expert might see it as a chance to play God. A critic can make or break an artist."

"Who would be qualified for such a job?"

"A teacher. A curator. Someone who contributes to art journals."

Arch said, "He'd have to know how to write. Most artists can't write. They think they can, but they can't."

"It'll be interesting to see who applies for the job."

Someone said, "Any more dope on the Lambreth case?"

"Nothing that they've seen fit to reveal," said Lodge.

"Know who'd make a good critic?" Qwilleran said. "He's currently unemployed, too."

"Who?"

"Noel Farhar from the museum."

"Think he'd be interested?" Arch said. "Maybe I should give him a buzz."

After lunch Qwilleran spent most of the afternoon taking telephone calls, and at the end of the day his urge to go back to the Press Club for dinner was less powerful than his urge to go home and see Koko. The cat, he told himself, was now an orphan. Siamese were particularly needful of companionship. The bereaved animal had been locked up alone in Qwilleran's apartment all day. There was no telling what kind of breakdown he might have suffered.

When Qwilleran unlocked the door of his apartment, there was no sign of Koko on the sofa or the big chair, no leonine pose on the red carpet, no pale bundle of fur on the bed in the alcove.

Qwilleran called the cat's name. He got down on hands and knees and looked under things. He searched behind draperies and behind the shower curtain in the bathtub. He peered up the chimney.

He thought, I've accidentally shut him up in a cabinet or closet. But a frantic banging of doors and drawers produced no cat. He couldn't have escaped. The apartment door had been locked. There were no open windows. He's got to be in this apartment, Qwilleran thought. If I start fixing his dinner, he may come crawling out of the woodwork.

Qwilleran went to the kitchenette, approached the refrigerator, and found himself face to face with a calm, cool-eyed Koko.

Qwilleran gasped. "You devil! Were you sitting there all the time?"

Koko, huddled in an awkward pose on the refrigerator top, answered with a curt syllable.

"What's the matter, old fellow? Are you unhappy?"

The cat shifted position irritably. Now he crouched with his body hovering above the hard porcelain surface. His haunches angled up like fins, and the fur over his shoulder blades spread open like a huge dandelion gone to seed.

"You're uncomfortable! That's what's wrong. After dinner we'll go upstairs and get your cushion. Is that okay?"

Koko squeezed both eyes.

Qwilleran started to mince the beef. "When this hunk of meat is gone, you'll have to start eating something I can afford — or else move to Milwaukee. You live better than I do."

After Koko had chewed his beef and Qwilleran had downed a salami sandwich, they went upstairs to get the blue cushion from the top of Mountclemens' refrigerator. The place was locked now, but Qwilleran still had the key the critic had given him a week ago.

Koko entered the apartment with a wondering hesitation. He wandered aimlessly, smelled the carpet here and there, and moved gradually toward one comer of the living room. The louvered doors seemed to attract him. He sniffed their edges, the hinges, the louvers — in rapt concentration.

"What are you looking for, Koko?"

The cat stretched tall on his hind legs and scratched the door. Then he pawed the red carpet.

"Do you want to get into that closet? What for?"

Koko dug vigorously at the rug, and Qwilleran took the suggestion. He opened the double doors.

In the early life of the house, this closet might have been a small sewing room or study. Now the windows were shuttered, and the space was filled with racks holding paintings in vertical slots. Some were framed; some were merely stretched canvases. Here and there Qwilleran caught glimpses of wild, meaningless splotches of color.

Once inside the closet, Koko sniffed avidly, his nose taking him to one rack after another. One particular slot interested him keenly; he tried to insert his paw.

"I'd like to know what this demonstration is all about," Qwilleran said.

Koko yowled in excitement. He tried first one paw and then the other. He took time out to brush against Qwilleran's pant leg, after which he resumed the quest.

"You want some help, I suppose. What's in that rack?" Qwilleran wthdrew the framed painting that filled the narrow slot, and Koko reached in to snag a small dark object with his claws.

Qwilleran took the thing away from the cat to examine it. What could it be? Soft… fuzzy… lightweight. Koko howled in indignation.

"Sorry," said Qwilleran. "Just curious. So this is Mintie Mouse!" He tossed the mint-perfumed toy back to the cat, who clutched it with both paws, rolling on his side and pummeling it with his hind feet.

"Come on, let's get out of here." Qwilleran returned the painting to its slot but not without giving it a quick perusal. It was a dreamlike landscape filled with headless bodies and disembodied heads. He grimaced and put it away. So these were Mountclemens' blue-chip stocks!

He looked at a few more. One was a series of black lines ruled across a white background — some parallel, some intersecting. He raised his eyebrows. Another canvas was covered with gray paint — just gray paint and a signature in the lower corner. Then there was a vivid purple sphere on a red field that gave Qwilleran the beginning of a headache.

The next painting caused a peculiar sensation in the roots of his moustache. Impulsively, he swooped down on Koko, gathered him up and ran downstairs.

He went to the telephone and dialed a number that he had come to know by heart. "Zoe? This is Jim. I've found something here at the house that I want you to see…. A painting — one that will interest you. Koko and I went up to Mountclemens' apartment to get something, and the cat led me to this closet. He was very insistent. You'll never believe what we found…. A monkey. A painting of a monkey!.. Can you come over?"

Minutes later, Zoe arrived by taxi, wearing her fur coat over slacks and a sweater. Qwilleran was watching for her. He had brought the monkey painting down to his own apartment, where it was propped on the mantel over the Monet.

"That's it!" cried Zoe. "That's the other half of Earl's Ghirotto!"

"You're sure?"

"It's obviously a Ghirotto. The brushwork is unmistakable, and the background is the same yellow-green. Notice how the design is poorly balanced; the monkey is too far to the right, and he's reaching out of the picture. Also — can't you see a scrap of the dancer's tutu showing at the right-hand edge?"

They both stared at the canvas, their thoughts taking shape.