Anderson is retiring October first…." "Anderson!" Qwilleran said with undisguised horror! "The church editor?" "Perhaps you could handle church news, and Gracious Abodes could be turned over to the Women's Department, where it belonged in the first place." Qwilleran's moustache reared up. "If you'd let me dig into these crimes, Harold, the way I suggested, I think I could unearth some clues. There are forces working against us! I happen to know, for example, that the Police Widows' Fund got a sizable donation from the owners of the Morning Rampage around the same time the Vice Squad raided the Allison house." Percy looked weary. "They're getting one from us, too. Every September both papers make a donation." "All right, then. Maybe it wasn't a payoff, but I'll bet the timing wasn't accidental. And I suspect a plot — in the Muggy Swamp incident, too." "On what do you base your suspicions?" Qwilleran smoothed his moustache. "I can't reveal my source at this time, but with further investigation — " The editor slapped his hand on the desk with finality. "Let's leave it the way I've suggested, I Qwill. You put next Sunday's magazine to bed, and then let Fran Unger take over." "Wait! Give me one more week before you make a decision. I promise there'll be a surprising development." "We've had nothing but surprising developments for the last fifteen days." Qwilleran did not reply, and he did not move away from Percy's desk. He just stared the editor in the eye and waited for an affirmative — a trick he had learned from Koko.

"All right. One more week," said the editor. "And let's hope no one plants a bomb in the Press Room." Qwilleran went back to the Feature Department with hope and doubt battling for position. He dialed the Fluxion's extension at Police Headquarters and talked to Lodge Kendall. "Any news on the murder?" "Not a thing," said the police reporter.

"They're going through Lyke's address book. It's an extensive list." "Did they get any interesting fingerprints?" "Not only fingerprints, but pawprints!" "Let me know if anything breaks," Qwilleran said. "Just between you and me, my job may depend on it." At six o'clock, as Qwilleran was leaving for dinner, he ran into Odd Bunsen at the elevator.

"Hey, do you want those photographs of the Tait house?" Bunsen said. "They've been cluttering up my locker for a week." He went back to the Photo Lab and returned with a large envelope. "I made blowups for you, same as I made for the police. What do you want them for?" "Thought I'd give them to Tait." "That's what I figured. I did a careful job of printing." Qwilleran went to the Press Club, loaded a plate at the all- you-can-eat buffet, and took it to the far end of the bar, where he could eat in solitude and contemplate the day's findings: Lyke's relationship with Cokey, his unfashionable beginnings, the boyhood friendship that went sour, the national treasures that should have stayed in Japan, and the vague status of Yushi. Once during the day Qwilleran had tried to telephone Cuisine lnternationale, but Yushi's answering service had said the caterer was out of town.

While the newsman was drinking his coffee, he opened the envelope. The photographs were impressive. Bunsen had enlarged them to eleven-by-fourteen and let the edges bleed. The bartender was hovering near, wiping a spot on the bar that needed no wiping, showing curiosity.

"The Tait house," Qwilleran said. "I'm going to give them to the owner." "He'll appreciate it. People like to have pictures of their homes, their kids, their pets — anything like that." Bruno accompanied this profound observation with a sage nod.

Qwilleran said: "Did you ever hear of a cat licking glossy photos? That's what my cat does. He also eats rubber bands." "That's not good," said the bartender. "You better do something about it." "You think it's bad for him?" "It isn't normal. I think your cat is, like they say, disturbed." "He seems perfectly happy and healthy." Bruno shook his head wisely. "That cat needs help. You should take him to a psycatatrist." "A psyCATatrist?" said Qwilleran. "I didn't know there was such a thing." "I can tell you where to find a good one." "Well, thanks," said the newsman. "If I decide to take Koko to a headshrinker, I'll check back with you." He went to the buffet for a second helping, wrapped a slice of turkey in a paper napkin, and took a taxi home to the Villa Verandah.

As soon as he stepped off the elevator on the fifteenth floor, he started jingling his keys. It was his signal to Koko.

The cat always ran to the door and raised his shrill Siamese yowl of greeting. As part of the ritual, Qwilleran would pretend to fumble with the lock, and the longer he delayed opening the door, the more vociferous the welcome.

But tonight there was no welcoming clamor. Qwilleran opened the door and quickly glanced in Koko's three favorite haunts: the northeast corner of the middle sofa; the glass-topped coffee table, a cool surface for warm days; and the third bookshelf, between a marble bust of Sappho and a copy of Fanny Hill, where Koko retired if the apartment was chilly. None of the three offered any evidence of cat.

Qwilleran went to the kitchen and looked on top of the refrigerator, expecting to see a round mound of light fur curled on the blue cushion — headless, tailless, legless, and asleep. There was no Koko there. He called, and there was no answer. Systematically he searched under the bed, behind the draperies, in closets and drawers, even inside the stereo cabinet. He opened the kitchen cupboards. In a moment of panic he snatched at the refrigerator door. No Koko. He looked in the oven.

All this time Koko was watching the frantic search from the seat of the green wing chair — in plain view but invisible, as a cat can be when he is silent and motionless. Qwilleran gave a grunt of surprise and relief when he finally caught sight of the hump of fur. Then he became concerned. Koko was sitting in a hunched position with his shoulder blades up and a troubled look in his eyes.

"Are you all right?" the man said. The cat gave a mouselike squeak without opening his mouth.

"Do you feel sick?" Koko wriggled uncomfortably and looked in the corner of the chair seat. A few inches from his nose was a ball of fluff. Green fluff.

"What's that? Where did you get that?" Qwilleran demanded. Then his eyes traveled to the wing of the chair.

Across its top a patch of upholstery fabric was missing, and the padding was bursting through.

"Koko!" yelled Qwilleran. "Have you been chewing this chair? This expensive Danish chair?" Koko gave a little cough, and produced another wad of green wool, well chewed.

Qwilleran gasped. "What will Harry Noyton say? He'll have a fit!" Then he raised his voice to a shout, "Are you the one who's been eating my ties?" The cat looked up at the man and purred mightily.

"Don't you dare purr! You must be crazy — to eat cloth! You're out of your mind! Lord! That's all I need — one more problem!" Koko gave another wheezing cough, and up came a bit of green wool, very damp.

Qwilleran dashed to the telephone and dialed a number.

"Connect me with the bartender," he said, and in a moment he heard the hubbub of the Press Club bar like the roar of a hurricane. "Bruno!" he shouted. "This is Qwilleran. How do I reach that doctor? That psycatatrist?"