"This is Cokey," said a breathless voice. "I just heard the radio announcement about David Lyke. I can't believe it." "He was murdered, all right." "Do you have any idea who did it?" "How would I know?" "Are you mad at me?" Cokey said. "You're mad at me because I suggested publishing the Allison house." "I'm not mad," said Qwilleran, letting his voice soften a little. It occurred to him that he might want to question Cokey about a few things. "I'm shaving. I've got lather allover my face." "Sorry I called so early." "I'll give you a ring soon, and we'll have dinner." "How's Koko?" "He's fine." After saying goodbye, Qwilleran had an idea.: He wiped the lather from his face, waked Koko, and placed him on the dictionary. Koko arched his back in a tense, vibrating stretch. He turned his whiskers up, rolled his eyes down, and yawned widely, showing thirty teeth, a corrugated palate, five inches of tongue, and half his gullet.

"Okay, let's play the game," Qwilleran said, after a prolonged yawn of his own.

Koko turned around three times, then rolled over and assumed a languid pose on the open pages of the dictionary.

"Game! Game! Play the game!" Qwilleran dug his fingernails into the pages to demonstrate.

Coyly Koko rolled over on his back and squirmed in a happy way.

"You loafer! What's the matter with you?" The cat just narrowed his eyes and looked dreamy.

It was not until Qwilleran waved a sardine under Koko's nose that he agreed to cooperate. The game was uneventful, however: maxillary and maypop, travel and trawlnet, scallion and Scandinavian. Qwilleran had hoped for more pertinent catchwords. He had to admit, though, that a couple of them made sense. The sardine can said PRODUT OF NORWAY.

Qwilleran hurried to the office and tackled the next issue of Gracious Abodes, but his mind was not on the magazine. He waited until he thought Starkweather would be at the studio, and then he telephoned Mrs. Starkweather at home.

She burst into tears. "Isn't it awful?" she cried. "My David! My dear David! Why would anyone want to do it?" "It's hard to understand," said Qwilleran.

"He was so young. Only thirty-two, you know. And so full of life and talent. I don't know what Stark will do without him." "Did David have enemies, Mrs. Starkweather?" "I don't know. I just can't think. I'm so upset." "Perhaps someone was jealous of David's success. Would anyone gain by his death?" The tears tapered off into noisy sniffing. "Nobody would gain very much. David lived high, and he gave everything away. He didn't save a penny. Stark was always warning him." "What will happen to David's half of the business?" Qwilleran asked in a tone as casual as he could manage.

"Oh, it will go to Stark, of course. That was the agreement. Stark put up all the money for the business. David contributed his talent. He had so much of that," she added with a whimper.

"Didn't Dave have any family?" "Nobody. Not a living soul. I think that's why he gave so many parties. He wanted people around him, and he thought he had to buy their affection." Mrs. Starkweather heaved a breathy sigh. "But it wasn't true. People just naturally adored David." Qwilleran bit his lip. He wanted to say: Yes, but wasn't he a cad? Didn't he say cutting things about the people who flocked around him? Don't you realize, Mrs. Starkweather, that David called you a middle-aged sot?

Instead he said, "I wonder what will happen to his Oriental art collection." "I don't know. I really don't know." Her tone hardened. "I can think of three or four spongers who'd like to get their hands on it, though!" "You don't know if the art is mentioned in David's will?" "No, I don't." She thought for a moment. "I wouldn't be surprised if he left it to that young Japanese who cooks for him. It's just an idea." "What makes you think that?" "They were very close. David was the one who set Yushi up in the catering business. And Yushi was devoted to David. We were all devoted to David." The tears started again. "I'm glad you can't see me, Mr. Qwilleran. I look awful. I've been crying for hours! David made me feel young, and suddenly I feel so old." Qwilleran's next call was to the studio called PLUG. He recognized the suave voice that answered.

"Bob, this is Qwilleran at the Fluxion," he said.

"Yes, indeed!" said Orax. "How the wires are buzzing this morning! The telephone company may declare an extra dividend." "What have you heard about Dave's murder?" "Nothing worth repeating, alas." "I really called," said Qwilleran, "to ask about Yushi. Do you know if he's available for catering jobs? I'm giving a party for a guy who's getting married." Orax said: "I'm sure Yushi will have plenty of time now that David has departed. He's listed in the phone book under Cuisine Internationale…. Are we going to see you at the Posthumous Pour?" "What's that?" "Oh, didn't you know?" said Orax. "When David wrote his will, he provided for one final cocktail bash for all his friends — at the Toledo! No weeping! Just laughter, dancing and booze until the money runs out. At the Toledo it runs out very fast." "David was a real character," Qwilleran said. "I'd like to write a profile of him for the paper. Who were his best friends? Who could fill me in?" Orax hummed on the line for a few seconds. "The Starkweathers, of course, and the Noytons, and dear Yushi, and quite a few unabashed freeloaders like myself." "Any enemies?" "Perhaps Jacques Boulanger, but these days it's hard to tell an enemy from a friend." "How about the girls in his life?" "Ah, yes, girls," said Orax. "There was Lois Avery, but she married and left town. And there was a creature with long straight hair who works for Mrs. Middy; I've forgotten her name." "I think," said Qwilleran, "I know the one you mean."

16

Qwilleran took a taxi to the Sorbonne Studio. He had telephoned for an appointment, and a woman with an engaging French accent had invited him to arrive tout de suite if he desired a rendez-vous with Monsieur Boulanger at the atelier.

In the taxi he thought again about Cokey. Now he knew! Koko had sensed her deception. Koko had been trying to convey that information when he nipped Cokey's head and licked the photograph from her wallet.

Qwilleran had caught only a glimpse of the picture, but he was fairly sure whose likeness the cat had licked: that arty pose, that light hair. Now he knew! Cokey — so candid, so disarming — was capable of a convincing kind of duplicity.

She had allowed Qwilleran to introduce David, and the decorator had played the game with only a meager wavering of his sultry gaze. Was he playing the gentleman on a spur-of-the-moment cue? Or was there some prearranged agreement?

If Cokey had deceived Qwilleran once, she had probably deceived him twice. Had she engineered the embarrassment about the Allison house? Did she have connections at the Morning Rampage?

"Is this the place you want?" asked the cabdriver, rousing Qwilleran from his distasteful reverie. The taxi had stopped in front of a pretentious little building, a miniature version of the pavilions that French monarchs built for their mistresses.

The interior of the Sorbonne Studio was an awesome assemblage of creamy white marble, white carpet, white furniture, and crystal chandeliers. The carpet, thick and carved, looked like meringue. Qwilleran stepped on it cautiously.

There was an upholstered hush in the place until a dark-skinned young woman of rare beauty appeared from behind a folding screen and said, "Bonjour, m'sieu. May I 'elp you?" "I have an appointment with Mr. Boulanger," said Qwilleran. "I'm from the Daily Fluxion." "Ah, oui. Monsieur Boulanger is on the telephone with a client, but I will announce your presence." With a sinuous walk she disappeared behind the folding screen, which was mirrored, and Qwilleran caught a reflection of himself looking smugly appreciative at her retreating figure.