15

Qwilleran phoned in the details of David Lyke's murder to a Fluxion rewrite man, and Bunsen called his wife. "Is the party over, honey?… Tell the girls I'll be right there to kiss 'em all good night…. Nothing. Not a thing. Just sat around and talked all evening…. Honey, you know I wouldn't do anything like that!" The photographer left the Villa Verandah to return to Happy View Woods, and Qwilleran began to worry about Koko's prolonged tranquillity. Was the cat demonstrating feline sangfroid or had he gone into shock? Upon returning to the apartment, he should have prowled the premises, inspected the kitchen for accidental leftovers, curled up on his blue cushion on top of the refrigerator. Instead, he huddled on the bare wood floor beneath the desk, with eyes wide, looking at nothing. His attitude suggested that he was cold. Qwilleran covered him with his old corduroy sports coat, arranging it like a tent over the cat, and received no acknowledgement — not even the tremor of an ear.

Qwilleran himself was exhausted after the scare of Koko's disappearance, Bunsen's hair-raising performance, and the discovery of Lyke's body. But when he went to bed, he could not sleep. The questions followed him from side to side as he tossed.

Question: Who would want to eliminate the easygoing, openhanded David Lyke? He was equally gracious to men and women, young and old, clients and competitors, the help in the kitchen and the guests in the living room. True, he spoke out of the other side of his mouth when their backs were turned, but still he charmed them all.

Question: Could the motive be jealousy? Lyke had everything-looks, talent, personality, success, friends. He had had a date that night. Perhaps the woman had been followed by a jealous friend or a jealous husband. Or — there was another possibility — perhaps the date had not been with a woman.

Question: Why was Lyke wearing an important ring and no other apparel, except a dressing gown? And why had the bedcover been removed and neatly folded in the middle of the evening? Qwilleran frowned and blew into his moustache.

Question: Why had the neighbors heard no com- motion and no shot? Perhaps the audio on Lyke's television had been turned up to full volume purposely, before the shot was fired. And the neighbors had attributed everything they heard to a television program. Wonderful invention, television.

Question: Where had Koko been during the whole episode? What had he seen? What had he done? Why did he now appear to be stunned?" Qwilleran tossed from his left side to his right for the hundredth time. It was dawn before he finally fell asleep, and then he dreamed of telephone bells. Readers were phoning him with unanswerable questions. Brrrring! "What colors do you mix to get sky-blue-pink?" Brrrring! "Where can I buy a Danish chair made in japan?" And the managing editor, too.

Brrrring! "Qwill, this is Harold. We're going to carpet the Press Room. What do you think about Bourbon Brown?" When the ringing telephone finally dragged Qwilleran from his confused sleep, he said a mindless «Hello» into the mouthpiece.

The voice at the other end said, simply, "Starkweather," and then waited.

"Yes?" said Qwilleran, groping for words. "How are you?" "Isn't it — isn't it terrible?" said Lyke's partner. "I haven't slept all night." Yesterday's events came tumbling back into Qwilleran's mind. "It was a shock," he agreed. "I don't understand it." "Is there any thing — I mean — could you…" There was a prolonged pause.

"Can I do anything for you, Mr. Starkweather?" "Well, I thought — if you could find out what — what they're going to say in the paper…" "I reported the item myself," said Qwilleran. "I phoned it in last night — just the bare facts based on the coroner's report and the detective's statement. It'll be in the first edition this morning. If there's to be any follow-up story, the editor will probably call me in…. Why are you concerned?" "Well, I wouldn't want — I wouldn't like anything to reflect — you know what I mean." "Reflect on the studio, you mean?" "Some of our customers, you know — they're very — " "You're afraid the papers will make it too sensational? Is that what you're trying to say? I don't know about the Morning Rampage, Mr. Starkweather. But you don't need to worry about the Fluxion. Besides, I don't know what anyone could say that would be damaging to the studio." "Well, you know — David and his parties — his friends. He had a lot of — you know how these young bachelors are." Qwilleran was now fully awake. "Do you have any idea of a possible motive?" "I can't imagine." "Jealousy, maybe?" "I don't know." "Do you think it had anything to do with David's Oriental art collection?" "I just don't know," said Starkweather in his helpless tone of voice.

Qwilleran persisted. "Do you know his collection well enough to determine if anything is missing?" "That's what the police wanted to know last night." "Were you able to help them?" "I went over there right away — over to David's apartment." "What did you find?" "Some of his best things were locked up in a closet. I don't know why." "I can tell you why," said Qwilleran. "Dave removed them before we took pictures yesterday." "Oh," said Starkweather.

"Did you know we were going to take pictures of Dave's apartment?" "Yes, he mentioned it. It slipped my mind." "Did he tell you he was going to remove some of the art?" "I don't think so." "Dave told me there were certain things he didn't want the public to know he had. Were they extremely valuable?" Starkweather hesitated. "Some of the things were — well — " "They weren't hot, were they?" "What?" "Were they stolen goods?" "Oh, no, no! He paid plenty." "I'm sure he did," said Qwilleran, "but I'm talking about the source of the stuff. He said, 'There are some things I shouldn't even have. What did he mean by that?" "Well, they were — I guess you'd say — museum pieces." "A lot of well-heeled collectors own items of museum caliber, don't they?" "But some of David's things were — well — I guess they should never have left the country. Japan, that is." "I see," said Qwilleran. He thought a moment.

"You mean they were ostensibly protected by the government?" "Something like that." "National treasures?" "I guess that's what they call them." "Hmm… Did you tell the police that, Mr. Starkweather?" "No." "Why not?" "They didn't ask anything like that." Qwilleran enjoyed a moment's glee. He could picture the brusque Wojcik interrogating the laconic Starkweather.

Then he thought of one more question. "Can you think of anyone who has shown particular interest in these 'protected' items?" "No, but I wonder…" "What? What do you wonder, Mr. Starkweather?" Lyke's partner coughed. "Is the studio liable — I mean, if there's anything illegal — could they…" "I doubt it. Why don't you get some sleep, Mr. Starkweather? Why don't you take a pill and try to get some sleep?" "Oh, no! I must go to the studio. I don't know what will happen today. This is a terrible thing, you know." When Starkweather hung up, Qwilleran felt as if he'd had all his teeth pulled. He went into the kitchen to make some coffee, and found Koko stretched out on the refrigerator cushion. The cat was lying on his side with his head thrown back and his eyes closed. Qwilleran spoke to him, and not a whisker moved. He stroked the cat, and Koko heaved a great sigh in his sleep. His hind foot trembled.

"Dreaming?" said Qwilleran. "What do you dream about? Chicken curry? People with guns that make a loud noise? I'd sure like to know what you witnessed last night." Koko's whiskers twitched, and he threw one paw across his eyes.

The next time the telephone rang, it interrupted Qwilleran's shaving, and he answered in a mild huff. He considered shaving a spiritual rite — part ancestor worship, part reaffirmation of gender, part declaration of respectability — and it required the utmost artistry.