"Yes, but Zoe's eyes! So deep and honest."

"You can't trust a woman with eyes like that. Just stop and think what probably happened on the night of Mountclemens' murder. Zoe phoned him to arrange a rendezvous, saying she'd drive into the deserted alley and sneak in the back way. That's probably the way she always did it. She'd blow the horn, and Mountclemens would go out and unlock the patio gate. But the last time it happened, it wasn't Zoe standing there in the dark; it was Butchy — with a short, wide, sharp, pointed blade."

"But Zoe is such a lovely woman. And that gentle voice! And those knees!"

"Qwilleran, you're a dope. Don't you remember how she got you out of the way on the night of Mountclemens' murder by inviting you to dinner?"

That evening Qwilleran went home and sat down and said to Qwilleran, "You fell for that helpless-female act and let her make you a stooge…. Remember how she sighed and bit her lip and stammered and called you so understanding? All the time she was building up her case with hints, alibis, painful revelations…. And did you notice that nasty gleam in her eye today? It was the same savage look she put in that cat picture at the Lambreth Gallery. Artists always paint themselves. You've found that out."

Qwilleran was plunged in the depths of his big arm, chair, pulling on a pipe that had burned out some minutes before. His silence weighted the atmosphere, and a shrill protest eventually came from Koko.

"Sorry, old fellow," said Qwilleran. "I'm not very sociable tonight."

Then he sat up straight and asked himself, What about that station wagon? Did Mountclemens drive it to New York? And whose was it?

Koko spoke again, this time from the hallway. His conversation was a melodic succession of cat sounds that had a certain allure. Qwilleran walked out to the hall and found Koko frolicking on the staircase. The cat's slender legs and tiny feet, looking like long-stemmed musical notes, were playing tunes up and down the red-carpeted stairs. When he saw Qwilleran, he raced to the top of the flight and looked down with an engaging follow-me invitation in his stance and the tilt of his ears.

Qwilleran suddenly felt indulgent toward this friendly little creature who knew when companionship was needed. Koko could be more entertaining than a floor show and, at times, better than a tranquilizer. He gave much and demanded little.

Qwilleran said, "Want to visit your old stamping ground?" He followed Koko and unlocked the critic's door with the key he carried.

Trilling with delight, the cat walked in and explored the apartment, savoring every corner.

"Have a good smell, Koko. That woman from Milwaukee will be coming soon, and she'll sell the place and take you home with her, and then you'll have to live on beer and pretzels."

Koko — as if he understood and wished to comment — paused in his tour and sat down on his spine for a brief but significant washup of his nether parts.

"I gather you'd rather live with me."

The cat ambled toward the kitchen, sprang to his old post on the refrigerator, found it cushionless, complained, and jumped down again. Hopefully he reconnoitered the comer where his dinner plate and water bowl used to be. Nothing there. He hopped lightly to the stove, where the burners tantalized him with whiffs of last week's boiled-over broth. From there he stepped daintily to the butcher's block, redolent with memories of roasts and cutlets and poultry. Then he nuzzled the knife rack and dislodged one blade from the magnetic bar.

"Careful!" said Qwilleran. "You could cut off a toe." He put the knife back on the magnet.

As he lined it up with the other three blades, his moustache flagged him, and Qwilleran had a sudden urge to go down to the patio.

He went to the broom closet for the flashlight and wondered why Mountclemens had gone down the fire escape without it. The steps were dangerous, with narrow treads partly iced.

Had the critic thought he was going down to meet Zoe? Had he thrown his tweed coat over his shoulders and gone down without a flashlight? Had he taken a knife instead? The fifth knife that belonged on the magnetic rack?

Mountclemens had left his prosthetic hand upstairs. A man so vain would have worn it to meet his paramour, but he wouldn't need it to kill her.

Qwilleran turned up the collar of his corduroy jacket and stepped carefully down the fire escape, accompanied by a curious but enthusiastic cat. The night was cold. The alley kept its after-hours silence.

The newsman wanted to see how the patio gate opened, in what direction the shadows fell, how visible an arriving visitor would be in the darkness. He examined the solid plank gate with its heavy Spanish lock and strap hinges. Mountclemens would have remained partly hid, den behind the gate as he opened it. One swift movement by the visitor would have pinned him to the wall. Some, how Mountclemens had failed to take his intended victim by surprise. Somehow the murderer had managed to get the jump on him.

While Qwilleran mused and ran the flashlight over the weathered bricks of the patio, Koko discovered a dark stain on the brick floor and sniffed it intently.

Qwilleran grabbed him roughly about the middle. "Koko! Don't be disgusting!"

He went back up the fire escape, carrying the cat, who writhed and squalled as if he were being tortured.

In Mountclemens' kitchen Koko sat down in the middle of the floor and had a pedicure. His brief walk in the unclean outdoors had soiled his toes, his claws, the pads of his dainty feet. Spreading the brown toes like petals of a flower, he darted his pink tongue in and out — washing, brushing, combing, and deodorizing with one efficient implement.

Suddenly the cat paused in the middle of a lick, his tongue extended and his toes spread in midair. A faint rumble came from his throat, and he unfolded to standing position — tense with subdued excitement. Then deliberately he walked to the tapestry in the long hall and pawed the corner.

"There's nothing down in that old kitchen except dust," said Qwilleran, and then his moustache tingled, and he had a singular feeling that the cat knew more than he himself did.

He picked up the flashlight, rolled up the corner of the tapestry, unbolted the door, and went down the narrow service stairs. Koko was waiting at the bottom, making no sound, but when Qwilleran picked him up, he felt the cat's body vibrating, and he felt tension in every muscle.

Qwilleran opened the door and let it swing into the old kitchen, quickly flashing his light around the entire room. There was nothing there to warrant Koko's restlessness. Qwilleran trained the flashlight on the easel, the littered table, the canvases stacked against the walls.

And then with a disturbing sensation on his upper lip he realized there were fewer canvases than he had seen the night before. The easel was empty. And the robot propped on the sink was gone.

Momentarily off his guard, he lost his hold on Koko, and the cat jumped to the floor. Qwilleran swung around and flashed the light into the dining room. It was empty, as before.

In the kitchen Koko was stalking something — with stealth in every line of his body. He jumped first to the sink, teetered on the edge while he scanned the area, then noiselessly down to a chair, then up to the table. As he ran his nose over the clutter on the tabletop, his mouth opened, his whiskers flared, and he showed his teeth, while with one paw he scraped the table around the palette knife.

Qwilleran stood in the middle of the room and tried to assemble his thoughts. Something was happening here that made no sense. Who had been in this kitchen? Who had removed the paintings — and why? The two pictures of robots had disappeared. What else had been taken?

Qwilleran placed the flashlight on a tiled counter, so that the light fell on the few remaining canvases in the room, and he turned one around.