"He'll do all right, too. Cats are born snoopers. Our kids have a cat that gets into everything. He'd make a good cop — or a good newspaperman." Hames scanned the menu. "Before I order, who's paying for this meal? The Daily Fluxion or us underpaid guardians of the public welfare?"

Wojcik said to Qwilleran, "Kendall tells us you want to talk about the art murders."

"I've picked up a few facts. Do you want to hear them now, or do you want to order first?"

"Let's hear."

"Well, it's like this: Lambreth's widow seems to have made me her confidant, and she told me a few things last night after I discovered something unusual in Mountclemens' apartment."

"What were you doing up there?"

"Looking for the cat's toy mouse. It's an old sock filled with dried mint. He was going crazy because he couldn't find it."

Hames said, "Our cat's wild for catnip, too."

"This isn't catnip. It's fresh mint that Mountclemens grew in a pot on the windowsill."

"Same thing," said Hames. "Catnip's a member of the mint family."

"So what did you find that was unusual?" said Wojcik.

"A painting of a monkey that seemed to ring a bell. I called Mrs. Lambreth, and she came over and identified it."

"What's with this monkey?"

"It has to do with that painting of a ballet dancer by Ghirotto at the Lambreth Gallery."

Hames said, "We have one of those Ghirotto dancers at home. My wife bought it for $14.95 at Sears."

"Ghirotto painted a lot of dancers," said Qwilleran, "and the reproductions are quite popular. But this one is unique. It's only half a painting. The canvas was ripped and the two halves sold separately. Lambreth owned the half with Ghirotto's signature and was hunting for the other half, which had a monkey on it. Combined and restored, they'd be worth $150,000."

Hames said, "They get ridiculous prices for art these days…. Does anybody want one of these poppy,seed rolls?"

Wojcik said, "And you found the missing half —»

"In a closet in Mountclemens' apartment," said Qwilleran.

"In a closet? You were really snooping, weren't you?" Qwilleran's moustache rebelled and he smoothed it. "I was looking for the cat's —»

"Okay, okay, so it looks like Mountclemens killed a man to get a picture of a dame in a short skirt. What else do you know?"

Qwilleran, irritated by Wojcik's brusqueness, found his spirit of cooperation flagging. He said to himself, Let him dig up his own lousy clues. With a degree of reluctance he told the detective, "Mountclemens had apparently been making eyes at Mrs. Lambreth."

"Did she tell you that?" Qwilleran nodded.

"Women always say that. Was she interested in Mountclemens?"

Qwilleran shook his head. "Foiled!" said the jovial Hames. "So the villain went home and committed hara-kiri in his backyard, after which he swallowed the knife to conceal the evidence of suicide and throw suspicion on the poor widow. Will someone please pass the butter?"

Wojcik threw his partner an impatient scowl. "However," said Qwilleran coolly, "I have an alibi for Mountclemens." He paused and waited for the reaction.

Kendall was all eyes and ears; Wojcik was twiddling a spoon; Hames was buttering another roll.

Qwilleran proceeded. "Lambreth was murdered at six-fifteen, according to the electric desk clock that stopped at that hour, but Mountclemens was on the three o'clock plane to New York. I bought his ticket for him."

"You bought his ticket," said Hames, "but do you know whether he used it? Perhaps he changed his reservation and went on the seven o'clock plane after killing Lambreth at six-fifteen Funny thing about that clock stopping at six-fifteen. It wasn't damaged. It was merely unplugged from the wall socket. It appears that the murderer went to some pains to stage signs of a violent shindy, place the clock on the floor and disconnect the juice, thus pinpointing the hour of the crime. Had the struggle been genuine and had the clock been knocked to the floor accidentally in the heat of battle, it would probably have been damaged, and if it had not been damaged, it would have continued to run, unless its fall had yanked the plug from the wall socket. However, considering the position of the desk and the location of the wall socket and the spot where the clock was found, it is doubtful whether such a fall could have disconnected the plug accidentaUy. So it appears that the murderer made a special effort to register the hour of the murder by means of the clock — for the purpose of establishing an alibi — after which he took a later flight… all of this assuming that your art critic with a three o'clock plane ticket was actually the killer."

Wojcik said, "We'll check the airline." After the detectives had left, Qwilleran had another cup of coffee with Lodge Kendall and said, "Did you say Hames had a mind like a computer? It's more like a cement mixer."

Kendall said, "I think he's right. I'll bet Mountclemens had you pick up his plane ticket for the express purpose of emphasizing that three o'clock departure. Then he took a later flight. Lambreth would have no qualms about letting him in the gallery after hours, and Mountclemens probably took the man completely by surprise."

"With only one hand?"

"He was tall. He came up behind Lambreth, got a stranglehold with his right arm, and plunged the chisel in Lambreth's exposed throat with his good left hand. Then he roughed up the office, disconnected the clock, damaged some art to leave a false clue, and took a later plane."

Qwilleran shook his head. "I can't picture Mountclemens on the other end of that chisel."

"Got a better theory?"

"I'm playing with one. It hasn't jelled yet. But it might explain all three deaths…. What's in that package?"

"The tapes the police impounded. There's nothing on them — just an art review. Are they any good to you?"

"I'll give them to Arch," Qwilleran said. "And maybe I'll write some kind of memorial piece to go with Mountclemens' last column."

"Careful how you phrase it. You might be writing a memorial to a murderer," Kendall said.

Qwilleran's moustache made a stubborn stand. He said, "I have a hunch you'll find Mountclemens was on that three o'clock plane."

When Qwilleran arrived home with the tape reels under his arm, it was nearing eight o'clock, and Koko met him at the door with an impatient clamor. Koko was not in favor of Qwilleran's casual meal schedule.

"If you'd learn to talk, I wouldn't have to hang around the Press Club so much," the newsman explained, "and you'd get your dinner on time."

Koko passed one paw over his right ear and gave his left shoulder blade two short licks with his tongue.

Qwilleran studied the signals thoughtfully. "I guess you can talk, all right. I'm just not bright enough to read you."

After dinner, cat and man went upstairs to the dictating machine on the critic's desk, and Qwilleran slipped a reel on the spindle. The sharp voice of the late George Bonifield Mountclemens-made more nasal by the quality of the equipment-filled the room:

"For publication Sunday, March 8 — Serious collectors of contemporary art are secretly acquiring all available works by the celebrated Italian painter Scrano, it was learned this week. For reasons of ill health, the artist — for twenty years a recluse in the Umbrian Hills — is no longer able to produce the paintings that have earned him the accolade of modern master.

"Scrano's final works are now en route to the United States, according to his New York agent, and prices may be expected to soar. In my own modest collection I have a small Scrano painted in 1958, and I have been offered twenty times its original cost. Needless to say, I would not part with it."

There was a pause in the dictation, while a few inches of tape unwound thoughtfully. Then the ringing voice dropped to a more casual tone.