Qwilleran remembered the paint-clouded eyes he had seen before entering the gallery — the eyes full of mystery and malice. He said, "Does she always paint women like that?"

Lambreth jerked one shoulder. "Mrs. Lambreth never paints to formula. She has great versatility and imagination. And the painting in the window is not intended to invoke human associations. It is a study of a cat."

"Oh," said Qwilleran.

"Are you interested in Scrano? He is one of the foremost contemporary artists. You saw one of his paintings in the window. Here is another on the easel."

Qwilleran squinted at the gray triangles on a white background. The painted surface was fine-grained and slick, with a gleam that was almost metallic; the triangles were crisp.

The newsman said, "He seems to be hooked on triangles. If you hung this one

upside down, you'd have three sailboats in a fog."

Lambreth said, "The symbolism should be obvious. In his hard-edge paintings Scrano expresses succinctly the essential libidinous, polygamous nature of Man. The painting in the window is specifically incestuous."

"Well, I guess that clobbers my theory," Qwilleran said. "I was hoping I'd discovered some sailboats. What does Mountclemens say about Scamo?"

"S-c-r-a-n-o," Lambreth corrected him. "In Scrano's work Mountclemens finds an intellectual virility that transcends the lesser considerations of artistic expression and focuses on purity of concept and sublimation of medium."

"Pretty expensive, I suppose."

"A Scrano usually runs into five figures."

"Whoosh!" said Qwilleran. "How about some of these other artists?"

"They command considerably less."

"I don't see any price tags anywhere."

Lambreth straightened a picture or two. "A gallery of this caliber would hardly be expected to post prices like a supermarket. For our major exhibitions we print a catalog, but what you see today is merely an informal showing of our own group of artists."

"I was surprised to find you located in the financial district," Qwilleran said.

"Our most astute collectors are businessmen."

Qwilleran took a turn around the gallery and reserved comment. Many of the canvases presented drips and blobs of paint in screaming, explosive colors. Some were composed solely of wavy stripes. There was a six-by-eight-foot close-up of a gaping red maw, and Qwilleran recoiled instinctively. On a pedestal stood an egg-shaped ball of metal titled "Untitled." Some elongated shapes in reddish clay resembled grasshoppers, but certain bulges convinced Qwilleran that he was looking at underfed humans. Two pieces of scrap metal were labeled "Thing #14" and "Thing #20."

Qwilleran liked the furniture better: scoop like lounge chairs, sofas floated on delicate chromium steel bases, and low tables with white marble tops.

He said, "Do you have any paintings by Cal Halapay?"

Lambreth cringed. "You must be joking. We are not that kind of gallery."

"I thought Halapay's stuff was highly successful."

"It's easily sold to persons who have no taste," said the dealer, "but actually Halapay's stuff — as you aptly describe it — is nothing but commercial illustration rather presumptuously installed in a frame. It has no value as art. In fact, the man would be doing the public a favor if he would forget his pretensions and concentrate on the activity he does so well-making money. I have no quarrel with hobbyists who want to spend their Sunday afternoons pleasantly in front of an easel, but they should not pose as artists and degrade the public taste."

Qwilleran turned his attention to the spiral staircase. "Do you have another gallery upstairs?"

"Just my office and the framing shop. Would you like to see the framing shop? It might interest you more than the paintings and sculpture."

Lambreth led the way past a stock room, where paintings were stored in vertical slots, and up the stairs. In the framing shop there was a disarrayed workbench and a lingering aroma of glue or lacquer.

"Who makes your frames?" asked Qwilleran.

"A very talented craftsman. We offer the best workmanship and the largest selection of moldings in the city." Still standing stiffly with his hands clasped behind his back, Lambreth nodded at a molding on the workbench. "That one sells for $35 a linear foot."

Qwilleran's gaze wandered to a cluttered office adjoining the workroom. He stared at a painting of a dancer hung crookedly on the wall. A ballerina in a filmy blue garment was depicted in a moment of arrested motion — against a background of green foliage.

"Now there's something I can understand," he said. "I really go for that."

"And well you might! It's a Ghirotto, as you can see by the signature."

Qwilleran was impressed. "I saw a Ghirotto at the museum yesterday. This must be a valuable piece of art."

"It would be — if it were complete."

"You mean it isn't finished?"

Lambreth drew an impatient breath. "This is only half of the original canvas. The painting was damaged. I'm afraid I could not afford a Ghirotto in good condition."

Qwilleran then noticed a bulletin board well plastered with newspaper clippings. He said, "I see the Daily Fluxion gives you pretty good coverage."

"You have an excellent art column," said the dealer. "Mountclemens knows more about art than anyone else in the city- including the self-styled experts. And he has integrity-unimpeachable integrity."

"Hmm," said Qwilleran. "You will no doubt hear Mountclemens denounced on all sides — because he is weeding out the quacks and elevating the standards of taste. Recently he did the city a great service by dislodging Farhar at the museum. A new regime will bring life back to that dying institution."

"But didn't they lose a juicy grant at the same time?"

Lambreth waved his hand. "Another year, another grant, and by that time the museum will merit it."

For the first time Qwilleran noticed the dealer's hands, their grimy nails out of keeping with his fastidious dress.

The newsman said, "Mountclemens thinks well of Mrs. Lambreth's work, I've noticed."

"He has been very kind. Many people think he favors this gallery, but the truth is: we handle only the best artists."

"This guy who paints triangles — is he a local artist? I might like to get an interview."

Lambreth looked pained. "It is rather well known that Scrano is a European. He has been a recluse — in Italy — I for many years. For political reasons, I believe."

"How did you find out about him?"

"Mountclemens brought his work to our attention and put us in touch with the artist's American agent, for which we are grateful. We are Scrano's exclusive representative in the Midwest." He cleared his throat and said proudly, "Scrano's work has an intellectualized virility, a transcendent purity —»

"I won't take any more of your time," said Qwilleran. "It's almost noon, and I have a luncheon appointment."

Qwilleran left the Lambreth Gallery with several questions banging about in his head: How could you tell good an from bad art? Why did triangles get thumbs-up while sailboats got thumbs-down? If Mountclemens was as good as Lambreth said, and if the local art situation was so unhealthy, why did Mountclemens stay in this thankless environment? Was he really a missionary, as Lambreth said? Or a monster, as everyone else implied?

Then one more question mark waved its curly tail. Was there really a man named George Bonifield Mountclemens?

At the Press Club, where he was meeting Arch Riker for lunch, Qwilleran said to the bartender, "Does the Fluxion art critic ever come in here?"

Bruno paused in wiping a glass. "I wish he did. I'd slip him a Mickey."

"Why? What's your complaint?"

"Only one thing," said Bruno. "He's against the whole human race." He leaned over the bar in a confidential manner. "I tell you he's out to ruin every artist in town. Look what he did to that poor old man, Uncle Waldo. And Franz Buchwalter in yesterday's paper! The only artists he likes are connected with the Lambreth Gallery. You'd think he owned it."