Qwilleran whistled through his moustache as he remembered another fact: It had been Butchy's idea, according to Mrs. Buchwalter, to put that piece of junk sculpture on the scaffolding.

After Nino's death Butchy faced other complications. Mountclemens was posing a threat to Zoe's happiness and her career, and Butchy — fiercely protective — might see a chance to eliminate this distressing dilemma…. qwertyuiop.

"Do you always look so puzzled when you write?" asked a soft voice.

Startled, Qwilleran could only sputter. He jumped to his feet.

Zoe said, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come to your office without telephoning first, but I was downtown having my hair done, and I took a chance on finding you here. The girl at the desk said I could walk right in. Am I interrupting something important?"

"Not at all," Qwilleran said. "Glad you dropped in. Let's go to lunch."

Zoe was looking strikingly handsome. He pictured himself ushering her into the Press Club, basking in curious stares, answering questions later.

But Zoe said, "Not today, thanks. I have another appointment. I'd just like to talk to you for a few minutes."

Qwilleran found a chair for her, and she pulled it close to his.

In a low voice she said, "There's something I should tell you — something that's been on my conscience — but it isn't easy to discuss."

"Will it help the investigation?"

"I don't know, really." She glanced around the room. "Is it all right to talk here?"

"Perfectly safe," Qwilleran said. "The music critic has his hearing aid turned off, and the man at the next desk has been in a fog for two weeks. He's writing a series on income tax."

Zoe smiled meagerly and said, "You asked me how Mountclemens could afford to buy his art treasures, and I evaded the question. But I've decided that you should be told, because indirectly it reflects on this newspaper."

"In what way?"

"Mountclemens was taking the profits from the Lambreth Gallery."

"You mean your husband paid him off?"

"No. Mountclemens owned the Lambreth Gallery."

"He owned it?"

Zoe nodded. "Earl was only an employee."

Qwilleran puffed through his moustache. "What a set, up! Mountclemens could write free plugs for his own merchandise and blast the competition — and the Flux paid him to do it! Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Zoe's hand fluttered. "I was ashamed of Earl's connection in the deal. I guess I hoped the secret would die with him."

"Did your husband discuss gallery business at home?"

"Not until recently. I had no idea of Mountclemens' connection with the gallery until a few weeks ago. When Earl and I had the showdown over Mountclemens. It was then he told me what kind of operator Mountclemens really was. It came as a complete shock."

"That I can believe."

"I was even more appalled at Earl's involvement. After that he began to tell me more about the gallery operation. He had been under a terrible strain, and he was overworked. Well paid, but overworked. Mountclemens wouldn't hire any help — or didn't dare. Earl did everything. Besides meeting the public and coping with artists, he made the picture frames and kept the books. My husband used to work for an accounting firm."

"Yes, I'd heard that," said Qwilleran.

"Earl had to take care of all the government red tape and juggle the figures on the tax returns."

"Juggle them, did you say?"

Zoe smiled bitterly. "You don't suppose a man like Mountclemens reported all his income, do you?"

"What did your husband think about that bit of snookery?"

"He said it was Mountclemens' funeral — not his. Earl merely did what he was told, and he wasn't liable." Zoe bit her lip. "But my husband kept a complete record of actual sales."

"You mean he kept two sets of books?"

"Yes. For his own information."

Qwilleran said, "Was he intending to use that information —?"

"Earl was getting to the end of his rope. Something had to be done — some change in the arrangement. And then there was this — this unpleasantness about me. That's when Earl confronted Mountclemens with some demands."

"Did you hear their discussion?"

"No, but Earl told me about it. He threatened Mountclemens — if he didn't leave me alone."

Qwilleran said, "I don't imagine our late art critic would scare very easily."

"Oh, yes, he was scared," said Zoe. "He knew my husband wasn't joking. Earl threatened to tip off the Internal Revenue people. He had the records that would prove fraud. He would even get a commission from the government for informing."

Qwilleran leaned back in his chair. "Wow!" he said softly. "That would have blown the whole mess wide open."

"The ownership of the gallery would have been exposed, and I'm afraid the Daily Fluxion would have looked rather bad."

"That's putting it mildly! The other newspaper would really make hay out of a thing like that. And Mountclemens —»

"Mountclemens would have to stand trial, Earl said. It would mean a jail term for fraud."

"It would have been the end of Mountclemens — here or anywhere else."

They stared at each other in silence, and then Qwilleran said, "He was a complex character."

"Yes," Zoe murmured.

"Did he really know art?"

"He had a brilliant knowledge. And in spite of his crooked streak, there was no misrepresentation in his column. Whatever he praised about the Lambreth Gallery was praiseworthy — the stripe paintings, the graphics, Nino's junk sculpture —»

"What about Scrano?"

"His concept is obscene, but the technique is flawless. His work has a classic beauty."

"All I see is a flock of triangles." Ah, but the proportions — the design — the depth and mystery in a flat composition of geometrics! Superb! Almost too good to be true."

Qwilleran challenged her boldly. "What about your own painting? Is it as good as Mountclemens said?"

"No. But it will be. The dirty colors I used expressed my inner turmoil, and that's allover now." Zoe showed Qwilleran a cold-blooded little smile. "I don't know who killed Mountclemens, but it's the best thing that could have happened." Venom darted from her eyes. "I don't think there's any doubt that he killed my husband. That night when Earl had to stay in his office to work on the books… I think he was expecting Mountclemens."

"But the police say Mountclemens left for New York at three o'clock that afternoon — by plane."

"I don't think so. I think he drove to New York — in that station wagon that was parked in the alley." Zoe stood up to leave. "But they'll never prove anything now that he's gone."

As Qwilleran rose, she extended a hand in a soft leather glove. She did it almost with gaiety. "I must hurry. I have an appointment at Penniman School. They're taking me on the faculty." Zoe smiled radiantly and walked from the office with a light step.

Qwilleran watched her go at: ld said to himself, "She's free now, and she's happy…. Who freed her?" Then he hated himself for his next thought. "And if it was Butchy, I wonder if the plot was entirely Butchy's idea."

For a while Professional Suspicion argued with Personal Inclination.

The latter said, "Zoe is a lovely woman, incapable of such a heinous plot. And she sure knows how to wear clothes!"

To which Professional Suspicion replied, "She's pretty eager to have her husband's murder blamed on the critic, now that he's gone and can't defend himself. She keeps coming up with scraps of information — strictly afterthoughts — that make Mountclemens look like a heel."

"But she's so gentle and appealing and talented and intelligent! And that voice! Like velvet."

"She's a smart dame, all right. Two people stabbed… and she gets the jackpot. It would be interesting to know how those maneuvers were engineered. Butchy may have done the dirty work, but she isn't bright enough to hatch the plot. Who gave her the key to the back door of the gallery? And who told Butchy to vandalize the female figure — in order to throw suspicion on a cockeyed male? Zoe wasn't even interested in Butchy; she was just using her."