Qwilleran gulped and said, "Frankly, I was expecting you to be much older —»

"I'm a boy wonder," said Halapay without smiling. "I made my first million before I was twenty one. I'm twenty nine now. I seem to have a genius for making money. Do you believe in genius? It's spooky, really. Here's a picture of me when I was married. My wife looks Oriental, doesn't she? She's out taking an art lesson this morning, but you'll meet her after lunch. We designed the house to go with her looks. Would you like some coffee? I'll stir up the housekeeper if you want coffee. Let's face it, I look boyish and I always will. There's a bar in the studio if you'd rather have a drink."

The studio had a painty aroma, a good deal of clutter, and one vast wall of glass overlooking a white, frozen lake. Halapay flicked a switch, and a filmy shade unfolded from the ceiling to screen out the glare. He touched another control, and doors glided open to reveal a bigger liquor supply than the Press Club had on its backbar.

Qwilleran said he preferred coffee, so Halapay pressed a button and gave the order to a brass grille mounted on the wall. He also handed Qwilleran an odd- shaped bottle from the bar. "This is a liqueur I brought back from South America," he said. "You can't buy it here. Take it home with you. How do you like the view from this window? Sensational, isn't it? That's a man-made lake. The landscaping alone cost me half a million. Do you want a doughnut with your coffee? These are my paintings on the wall. Do you like them?"

The studio walls were covered with framed canvases — portraits of small boys and girls with curly hair and cheeks like red apples. Everywhere Qwilleran looked there were red apples. "Pick out a painting," said Halapay, "and take it home with you — compliments of the artist. The large ones sell for five hundred dollars. Take a big one. Do you have any kids? We have two girls. That's their picture on the stereo cabinet. Cindy is eight and Susan is six."

Qwilleran studied the photograph of Halapay's daughters. Like their mother they had almond eyes and classically straight hair, and he said, "How come you paint nothing but children with curly hair and rosy cheeks?"

"You should go to the Valentine Ball on Saturday night. We're having a great jazz combo. Do you know about the ball? It's the annual Valentine party at the art club. We're all going in costume representing famous lovers. Would you like to go? You don't have to dress up, if masquerading doesn't appeal to you. It's twenty dollars a couple. Here, let me give you a pair of tickets."

"Getting back to your paintings," said Qwilleran, "I'm curious to know why you specialize in kids. Why not landscapes?"

"I think you should write up the ball in your column," Halapay said. "It's the biggest event of the year at the club. I'm chairman, and my wife's very photogenic. Do you like art? Everyone in the art field will be there."

"Including George Bonifield Mountclemens III, I suppose," said Qwilleran, in a tone intended to be jocular.

Without any change in his expressionless delivery, Halapay said, "That fraud! If that fraud showed his face in the outer lobby of the club, they'd throw him out. I hope he isn't a close friend of yours. I have no use for that character. He doesn't know anything about art, but he poses as an authority, and your paper lets him crucify established artists. They're letting him corrupt the entire art atmosphere of the city. They should get smart and unload him."

"I'm new on this beat," said Qwilleran as Halapay stopped for breath, "and I'm no expert —»

"Just to prove what a fraud your critic is — he builds up Zoe Lambreth as a great artist. Did you ever see her stuff? It's a hoax. You go and see her paintings at the Lambreth Gallery, and you'll see what I mean. No reputable gallery would accept her work, so she had to marry an art dealer. There are tricks in all trades. As for her husband, he's nothing but a bookkeeper who got into the art racket, and I do mean racket. Here comes Tom with the coffee."

A houseboy dressed in soiled chinos and a half, buttoned shirt appeared with a tray, which he banged down on a table with a lack of grace. He gave Qwilleran an unfriendly stare.

Halapay said, "I wonder if we ought to have a sandwich with this, It's almost lunchtime. What do you want to know about my work. Go ahead and ask some questions. Don't you want to make notes?"

"I'd like to know," said Qwilleran, "why you specialize in painting children."

The artist lapsed into a thoughtful silence, his first since Qwilleran's arrival. Then he said, "Zoe Lambreth seems to have this big connection with Mountclemens. It would be interesting to know how she manages it. I could make a few guesses — not for publication. Why don't you dig into the situation? You might come up with a juicy expos‚ and get Mountclemens fired. Then you could be art critic."

"I don't want — " Qwilleran began.

"If your paper doesn't clean up that

mess — and clean it up soon — they're going to start feeling it where it hurts. I wouldn't mind a hot dog with this coffee. Do you want a hot dog?"

At five, thirty that afternoon Qwilleran fled to the warm varnished sanctuary of the Press Club, where he had agreed to meet Arch Riker. Arch wanted a quick drink on the way home. Qwilleran wanted an explanation.

He told Bruno curtly, "Tomato juice on the rocks. No lime, no Worcestershire, no Tabasco." To Arch he said, "Thanks, pal. Thanks for the welcome celebration."

"What do you mean?"

"Was that an initiation gag?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about that assignment to interview Cal Halapay. Was that a practical joke? You couldn't have been serious. The guy's a nut."

Arch said, "Well, you know how artists are. Individualists. What happened?"

"Nothing happened. Nothing I could possibly use in a story — and it took six hours to find it out. Halapay lives in

this rambling house about the size of a junior high school, only it's sort of Japanese. And it's wired to do all kinds of tricks. The inside is wild. There's one wall made of glass rods hanging like icicles. They move when you walk past and sound like a xylophone that needs tuning."

"Well, why not? He's got to spend his dough somehow."

"I know, but wait till I finish. There's all this expensive stage setting, and then out comes Cal Halapay padding around in stocking feet and wearing a sweat shirt with a big hole in the elbow. And he looks about fifteen years old."

"Yes, I've heard he's youthful, looking — for a millionaire," Arch said.

"That's another thing. He keeps boasting about his money and trying to force presents on you. I had to fight off cigars, liquor, a $500 painting, a frozen turkey from his ranch in Oregon, and a Kerry blue puppy. After lunch his wife showed up, and I was afraid his generosity would exceed the bounds of propriety. Incidentally, Mrs. Halapay is quite a dish."

"You're making me envious. What did you have for lunch? Ostrich tongues?"

"Hot dogs. Served by a houseboy with the charm of a gorilla."

"You got a free lunch. What are you griping about?"

"Halapay. He won't answer questions."

"He refuses?" Arch asked in surprise.

"He ignores them. You can't pin him down. He wanders from progressive jazz to primitive masks he collected in Peru to pregnant cats. I had more luck

communicating with the gatepost than with that boy wonder."

"Did you get anything at all?"

"I saw his paintings, of course, and I found out about a blast the art club is giving on Saturday night. I think I might go."

"What did you think of his paintings?"

"They're slightly monotonous. All those red-apple cheeks! But I made a discovery. In all those pictures of kids, Cal Halapay is painting himself. I think he's enchanted with his own looks. Curly hair. Pink complexion."